'*^^jmw^■W'i1 . 


■11 


I 


06 


A  Story  of  the  Old  South. 


BA^ 


MARY     FRANCES     SEIBERT. 


NATCHEZ.   MISS. 

NATCHEZ  PRINTING  AND  STATIONERY 'cO., 

102-104   N.    UN40N  STREET, 

1897. 


COPYRIGHTED,     1897, 


MARY     FRANCES     SEIBERT. 


MY  BELOVED  FATHER, 

THIS     LITTLE     BOOK    IS     DEDICATED 
AS  A  TRIBUTE   OF   LOVE 
BY   HIS    AFFECTIONATE    DAUGHTER, 
MARY    F.    SEIBERT. 


3Z5S'/C 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2010  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/zulmastoryofoldsOOseib 


COISTTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION. 

chapti:r  I— rp:trospections. 

CHAPTER  II— AWAY  TO  THE  WOODS. 

CHAPTER  III— PIONEERING. 

CHAPTER  IV-IN  CHALPA  SWAMP. 

CHAPTER  V— A  NARROW^  ESCAPE. 

CHAPTER  VI— LUCILE'S  GUEST. 

CHAPTER  VII— THE  DAWSEYS. 

CHAPTER  VIII-  THE  DAWN  OF  A  NEW  LIFE. 

CHAPTER  IX-NEW  SCENES. 

CHAPTER  X— FIRST  IMPRESSIONS. 

CHAPTER  XI— INITIATION. 

CHAPTER  XII— LETTERS  FROM  THE  CONVENT. 

CHAPTER  XIII— HOME  AGAIN. 

CHAPTER  XIV— ECHOES  FROM  THE  WAR. 

CHAPTER  XV— CORN^E  A  CHEVREUIL. 

CHAPTER  XVI— JOURNEYING  TO  SAINT  FRANCIS-  CHURCH 

CHAPTER  XVII— BENEATH  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  STARS. 

CHAPTER  XVIII— AN  UNEXPECTED  CALL  and  REVELATION 

CHAPTER  XIX -EPISODES  ON  ALL  SAINTS'  DAY. 

CHAPTER  XX— THE  PATHOS  AND  THE  COMEDY  OF  WAR. 

CHAPTER  XXI— THE  COUSINS. 

CHAPTER  XXII- JUST  FOR  FUN. 

CHAPTER  XXIII— LOVE'S  WARFARE. 

CHAPTER  XXIV— ON  PROBATION. 

CHAPTER  XXV— LAWLERS'  INVASION. 

CHAPTER  XXVI— FAITHFUL  UNTIL  DEATH. 

CHAPTER  XXVII— OVERFLOW  AND  DISPERSION. 

CONCLUSION. 


INTRODUCTION. 


TN  introducing  "  Zulma,  a  Story  of  the  Old  South,''  to  the 
^  reading  public,  I  believe  that  in  this  day  of  progress  and 
despite  the  influence  of  its  so-called  realistic  literature,  there 
are  still  some  who  care  to  pause  now  and  then  and  cast  a  back 
ward  glance  at  those  institutions  laid  low  b}-  Time,  the  arch- 
iconoclast. 

Whatever  view  may  be  taken  of  that  problem  of  the  South, 
proposed  at  Sumpter  and  solved  by  Lee's  surrender,  the  writer 
of  romance  must  derive  from  the  old  conditions  an  ever  fruit- 
ful field  of  labor,  the  philosopher,  a  pregnant  theme  of 
thought. 

Personal  knowledge  of  the  incidents  interwoven  with  her 
story — Miss  Seibert  having  resided  in  Louisiana  during  the  most 
vital  epoch  through  which  this  section  has  passed — ^has  sug- 
gested to  the  author  the  work  of  which  this  volume  is  the  is- 
sue. And  while  the  voice  of  ''Topsj^"  is  lifted  up  in  the  land 
proclaiming  only  the  "seamy"'  side  ot  "Uncle  Tom's  Cabin, " 
it  is  not  unfit  even  at  this  later  date,  that  a  "Zulma"  be  heard 
in  turn  and  allowed  to  tell  us  in  her  homely  way  of  the  kindly, 
almost  paternal  relations  that  existed  between  master  and 
slave  on  the  old  Grosse  Tete  plantations. 

J'inall}',  I  would  say  that  the  b(  ok  must  prove  its  own 
raison  d'etre.  Literature,  like  wine,  needs  no  gaudy  label; 
its  own  ''hoHquet"  must  testify  unto  its  worth. 

Bespeaking  tor  the  book  the  fair  mindedness  which  we 
are  wont  to  claim  as  onr  Jin  de  siecle  virtue",  I  commend  this 
"Story  of  the  Old  South"  to  the  courtesy  of  its  homeland 
press.  IRWIN  HUNTINGTON. 

Natchez,  Miss.,  March  1,  1897. 


i  i 


ZUL_MR." 


CHAPTER    I. 


B.ETROSPECTIONS. 


A  FEW  miles  southward  from  the  old  town  of  Waterloo,  in 
■'*■  the  parish  of  Pointe  Coupee,  La. ,  a  lovely  river  winds  its 
way  through  fertile  lands,  and  clasps  in  its  limpid  embrace,  an 
island  of  almost  tropical  beauty.  Standing  on  the  opposite 
shore,  one  watches  with  unwearied  delight,  the  shifting  phases 
of  the  landscape  reflected  on  the  glassy  surface  of  the  river- 
lake.  It  is  a  snare  for  the  azure  of  the  sk}',  and  the  wander- 
ing clouds  by  day,  and  the  playgrounds  of  the  moonbeams  by 
night  The  quaint  habitations  of  the  islanders  nestle  among 
luxuriant  orchards  and  superb  trees  like  villas  on  the  Larian 
Lakes;  and  eveiywhere,  along  the  green  banks,  the  Cherokee 
spreads  and  glorifies  the  land  with  the  light  of  its  golden  heart. 
Farther  down,  beyond  the  shadows  of  the  tall  pecan  trees, 
ancient  willows  and  cotton  woods  dip  their  straggling  roots 
among  the  yellow  blossoms  of  the  American  lotus. 

Sometimes,  a  {irogue  is  seen  anchored  among  the  lily- 
pads,  where  countless  flowers  lift  up  their  royal  heads  to  greet 
the  matin  rays  of  the  sun.  The  craft  sways  gently  over  the 
dimpling  waves  and  the  angler  jerks  in  quick  succession,   the 

silver-scaled  beauties  from  their  canopied  retreat. 


10  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

All  along  the  shores,  cattle  are  seen  standing  in  pellucid 
pastures,  munching  the  succulent  weeds  which  abound  in  the 
shallow  water.  The  sight  is  a  delightful  feature  in  the  aspect 
of  the  river;  it  harmonizes  with  the  whole  and  enhances  the 
beauty  of  the  landscape. 

The  sunsets,  viewed  from  ditf'eient  points,  are  gorgeous 
beyond  description;  carmine  and  amber  glow  and  shift  across 
the  water  until  the  grey  of  twilight  falls  with  spectral  lustre 
over  the  scene.    . 

At  night,  the  distant  outlines  of  wood  and  shore,  form  a 
weird  contrast  with  the  moonlight  fjkimmering  on  the  waves; 
and  the  fugitive  light  of  the  stars,  dives  into  its  throbbing 
depths  like  spirits  falling  from  among  the  heavenly  hosts. 

But  this  placid  beauty  of  land  and  water  bus  but  lately 
succeeded  to  a  wilder  and  grander  prospect. 

Years  ago,  before  the  cut-offs  had  been  made  at  Waterloo 
and  Hermitage,  False  River  was  the  actual  bed  of  the  Missis- 
sippi river;  and  that  mighty  stream,  with  its  swift  current  and 
turbid  waters,  here  made  a  detour  on  its  passage  to  the  gulf. 
It  was  through  this  channel  that  La  Salle  and  his  bold  fol- 
lowers, passed  on  their  voyage  of  discovery;  Bienville  and  his 
gallant  brothers  gazed  on  the  wild  scenery,  Spanish  adventurers 
with  their  countrys  standards  waving  on  the  breeze,  awoke  the 
echoes  of  its  primival  forests,  and  with  their  shotguns,  startled 
the  deer  from  his  Cherokee  thicket.  x\nd  later  still,  after 
Louisiana  had  been  ceded  to  the  United  States,  and  settle- 
ments had  sprung  up  in  various  parts  of  the  countrv,  Western 
traders  floated  their  ])arges  down  around  its  picturesque  shores. 
Sloops  and  schooners  sailed  from  New  Orleans  with  tropical 
cargoes  which  they  bartered  for  the  natural  products  of  the 
country. 


kii 


RETROSPECTIONS  11 

Such  had  been  the  condition  of  this  section  before  False 
River  was  divorced,  from  that  stupendous  water  system  which 
now  drains  the  richest  and  most  important  region  of  the  Union. 

During  the  administration  of  Governor  Bienville,  permis- 
sion was  given  to  a  set  of  pioneers  to  dig  a  canal  from  the  up- 
per to  the  lower  ends  of  this  bend  in  the  river.  The  distance 
across  being  only  three  miles,  it  required  but  a  short  period  of 
years,  for  the  scouring  waters  to  divert  themselves  from  the 
natural  to  the  artificial  ctiannel.  The  old  bed  was  then  diked 
at  both  ends  leaving  an  isolated  body  of  water,  now  known  as 
False  River. 

Previous  to  this  changCj  this  territory  was  in  possession 
of  the  French,  who  had  overrun  the  country,  raised  forts  and 
planted  colonies  in  the  most  advantageous  situations.  A  fort 
and  chapel  had  been  erected  on  the  west  bank  of  the  Missis- 
sippi river  a  couple  of  leagues  from  the  scene  already  described. 

Its  successor,  the  old  Saint  Francis  Church,  was  built  in 
1765  at  a  period  when  the  ancestors  of  those  figuring  in  this 
story,  held  a  prominent  place  among  the  early  settlers. 

A  few  years  previous  to  the  transfer  of  Louisiana  to  Spain, 
a  Frenchman  by  the  name  of  Lafitte,  established  himself  here, 
on  the  picturesque  bank  of  False  River.  This  was  shortly  after 
the  act  of  free  navigation  of  the  Mississippi  had  been  secured 
by  a  treaty  between  the  United  States  and  Spain. 

Mr.  Lafitte  acquired  a  considerable  amount  of  wealth,  not 
only  b}'  the  sale  of  his  home  products,  but  by  a  judicious  mode 
of  trafficking  with  the  Indians  dispersed  around  the  country. 

Monsieur  Lafitte,  usually  styled  ■ '  Ze  bourgeois,''  was  a 
very  popular  man  among  the  Creoles.  He  and  his  four  manly 
sons  were  of  a  social  disposition,  delighting  in  the  chase  and 
reckless  adventures;  their  place  was  inconsequence,  the  ren- 
dezvous of  all  the  jovial  characters  of  the  neighborhood. 


12  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

The  Lafitte  residence,  though  lacking  in  elegance,  was 
considered  spacious  and  commodious.  Its  hipped-roof,  mud- 
daubed  walls  and  deep  galleries  made  the  characteristics  of  all 
Creole  houses  at  that  period — a  style,  though  fallen  in  desue- 
tude, still  seen  in  the  old  domiciles  which  have  escaped  the 
ravages  of  time,  and  now  stand  as  landmarks  to  the  coming 
generation. 

This  capacious  edifice  stood  prominent  in  the  midst  of  a 
broad  meadow  where  droves  of  horses  and  cattle  led  a  life  of 
pleasantness  beneath  the  shade  of  oaks,  grey  with  the  moss  of 
a  century's  growth. 

A  pair  of   antiered   horns  surmounted   the   posts   of   the 
front  gate — from   which  circumstance  the    place  derives   its 
name;    ^'■Cornea  ChevreuiV  (deer-horn  plantation.) 

These  trophies  bear  evidencfe  of  the  family's  taste  for 
field  sports;  in  truth,  to  this  overpowering  passion  for  the 
hounds  and  chase,  may  be  attributed  the  losses  which,  in  the 
course  of  time  jeopardized  their  property. 

Once  fallen  into  thriftless  and  extravagant  habits,  they 
neglected  their  business,  before,  so  absorbing  and  lucrative. 
As  years  rolled  on,  the  place  ceased  to  yield  an  income  and  the 
family  began  the  struggle  against  accumulating  debts.  Then, 
a  great  sorrow  darkened  the  doors  of  '^la  maision  liepJai'snvce," 
as  the  Lafittes  loved  to  call  their  home. 

One  summer  afternoon,  the  aged  father,  who  was  taking 
his  accustomed  nap  on  the  cool  gallery,  was  suddenly  aroused 
by  the  bearers  of  cruel  tidings.  Eugene,  his  first-born,  had 
been  snatched  from  life  in  the  prime  of  his  manhood.  That 
very  inorning,  he  had  left  home  with  gay  companions  laughing 
and  jesting,  little  dreaming  of  the  tragic  death  which  awaited 
him,  though  for  the  hundreth  time,  it  liad  been  predicted  on 
account  of  his  reckless  management  of  horses.      Thej'  laid  his 


RETROSPECTIONS.  13 

bruised  body  upon  his  bed,  and  the  wretched  father,  in  agony 
of  grief,  fell  senseless  upon  the  remains  of  him  who  had  been 
his  pride  and  best  beloved.  He  refused  all  consolation,  and  so 
wrapped  himself  in  his  sorrow  that  his  health  and  energies 
collapsed  as  by  the  efiect  of  some  overpowering  malady.  When 
death  claimed  him  as  the  next  victim  of  that  household,  he 
yielded  up  his  life  without  a  struggle. 

In  less  than  a  month  after  Mr.  Lafitte's  demise,  the 
youngest  of  the  family,  a  youth  gay,  handsome  and  generous- 
hearted,  succumbed  to  a  malignant  fever,  aggravated  by  grief 
and  despondency. 

Jean  Baptiste  and  Edmond  Lafitte  returned  from  their 
brotlier's  burial  with  hearts  oppressed  with  discouragement. 
The  sight  of  their  deserted  home  awakened  a  thousand  recol- 
lections which  rushed  upon  their  minds  like  phantoms  loosened 
from  some  dismal  abode.  The  brothers  turned  hastily  away, 
as  if  to  escape  the  pain  so  cruelly  thrust  upon  them.  They 
wandered  aimlessly  across  the  fields  in  the  direction  of  a  strip 
of  woods,  once  the  hunters'  rendezvous.  This  familiar  spot, 
associated  with  the  happy,  careless  past,  again  re-opened  the 
floodgates  of  sad  retrospections,  and  Edmond,  the  younger  of 
the  two,  threw  himself  in  one  of  the  rustic  seats  beneath  the 
trees,  and  burst  into  a  passionate  fit  of  weeping.  Jean  Baptiste 
with  arms  folded  across  his  sturdy  breast  leaned  against  the 
trunk  of  an  oak  and  silently  contemplated  his  brother's  emo- 
tion. His  expression  grew  hard  and  cold  and  his  lips  com- 
pressed with  the  eft'orts  he  made  to  control  his  own  feelings. 

Little  by  little,  his  brother's  sobs  subsided,  he  lifted  his 
eyes  and  listlessh'  watched  the  gambols  of  a  red  squirrel  in  the 
branches  above  him. 

Dull  apathy  had  succeeded  to  the  wild,  uncontrolable 
anguish  which  had  wrung  his  heart,  a  moment  before. 


14  ZULMA,    ACSTORY[OF    THE   OLD    SOUTH. 

Every  faculty  of  his  intelligence,  every  natural  emotion, 
seemed  paralyzed  and  his  senses  no  longer  grasped  the  full 
measure  of  his  afflictions. 

Jean  Baptiste  quietly  took  a  seat  beside  his  brother  and 
laid  his  hand  affectionately  upon  his  arm,  saying:  '■'■Tu  es  le 
suel  lien  (pii  ))i  attache  a  laterre,  cherfreref"  Then,  followed 
a  conscious  pause — a  silence  more  emphatic  than  words.  But 
the  spell  was  brief;  their  mutual  sorrow,  poignant  sympathy 
and  discouragement  demanded  expression,  and  they  talked 
long  and  sadly  of  the  ones  who  hud  been  so  suddenly  removed 
from  life — and  of  their  own  bereavement  and  forlorn  condition. 

Their  father  had  died  insolvent;  the  estate  was  heavily 
mortgaged.  Jean  Baptiste  touched  feelingly  upon  the  subject, 
signifying  his  desire  to  remain  on  the  place  and  pay  off  the 
debts.  Edmond  decidedl}  refused  to  adopt  his  brother's 
plans.  "We  are  homeless  and  penniless"  he  said;  "the 
wisest  course  for  us  to  pursue,  is  to  deliver  up  the  property 
and  leave  the  country.  A  man  thrown  on  his  own  resources, 
has  a  better  chance  among  strangers — far  from  associations 
which  will  only  tend  to  weaken  his  purpose  and  disqualify  him 
for  earnest  work." 

An  unwonted  light  leaped  into  the  moistened  eye  of  Jean 
Baptiste;  his  lips  quivered  with  suppressed  emotion. 

"Abandon  the  old  home!"  he  exclaimed  with  warmth; 
"the  spot  sacred  to  me  by  a  thousand  recollections?  Never, 
brother,  jieverl  This  heritage  bequeathed  to  us  by  the  hand 
of  misfortune,  shall  never  fall  to  the  lot  of  strangers!  I  shall 
devote  my  life's  labor  to  save  it  from  desecration.  You  will 
abandon  me — well — the  struggle  will  be  harder,  but  the  pros- 
pect does  not  alarm  me;  I  will  fight  life's  battle  alone." 

"Let  us  dismiss  the  subject  from  our  minds,"  answered 
Edmond  after  a  moments  painful   reflection,  "at  least,  until 


RETROSPECTIONS.  15 

after  we  have  resigned  ourselves  to  the  inevitable.  "Come, 
brother!"  he  continued,    rising  from   his   seat — "there  is  no 

escape  from  the  ordeal   before  us the  desolation  which 

awaits  us  at  home." 

Jean  Baptiste  silently  followed  his  brother  through  the 
long  evening  shadows,  his  eyes  full  of  unshed  tears,  searched 
for,  though  dreading  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  their  lonely 
home.  It  emerged  from  a  grove  of  catalpa  trees;  the  dying 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  fell  athwart  their  3'oung,  uplifted 
branches  and  cast  a  faint  glow  against  the  gable  end  of  the 
building. 

At  their  approach,  half  a  dozen  hounds  scampered  down 
the  galler}'  steps,  yelping  in  doeful  chorus,  A  flock  of  pigeons 
whirled  on  restless  wings  about  the  barn;  they  clamored  for 
the  accustomed  feed  often  distributed  to  them  by  hands  now 
cold  in  the  stony  clasp  of  death. 

The  unhappy  brothers,  dreading  to  pass  the  threshold  of 
their  deserted  home,  loitered  about  the  place,  mechanically 
performing  their  farm  work.  After  dusk,  thev  sat  on  the 
gallery  until  the  moon  arose  and  bridged  with  gold  the  undu- 
lating waves  of  the  river.  Climbing  over'the  trees,  she  looked 
down  with  milder  radiance  upon  the  bereaved  ones,  and  flooded 
with  light,  the  three  vacant  chairs  beside  them. 

In  the  course  of  time,  settlements  were  made  and  the 
wishes  of  both  brothers  were  realized.  Edmond  made  a  sur- 
render of  his  rights  and  left  the  country.  Jean  Baptiste 
assumed  the  debts  and  entered  his  new  career.  His  life  of 
ease  and  indolence,  was  exchanged  for  one  of  tireless  labor 
and  privation.  At  the  end  of  fifteen  years,  he  found  himself 
sole  owner  of  the  '•'■Come  a  ChevreuiV  plantation.  The  better 
part  of  his  life  had  been  spent  in  accomplishing  his  purpose. 
He  had  denied  himself  every  pleasure,  even  the  most  legiti- 
mate or  such  as  the  mind  derives  from  nature  without  the 
expenditure  of  time  and  labor. 


16  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

He  then  brought  to  its  solitude,  a  sweet-faced  woman, 
who  had  faithfull}'  loved  him  throughout  his  struggles.  Dur- 
ing the  waiting,  the  charms  and  graces  of  youth  had  van- 
ished; for  both  had  passed  the  prime  of  life.  But  their 
wedding  day  dawned  upon  their  heads  with  subdued  happiness. 

The  wife's  gentle  presence  in  that  great,  rambling  house, 
contributed  much  towards  dissipating  the  gloom  which  had  for 
so  long  pervaded  its  atmosphere;  and  the  cloud  of  tender 
melancholy  under  which  they  had  been  wedded,  vanished  like 
mist  under  the  benign  influence  of  the  sun. 

On  a  blight  morning  in  June;  while  the  mocking  birds 
vied  with  each  other  in  thrilling  concerts,  Jean  Baptiste  Lafitte, 
with  an  undefinible  expression  on  his  countenance,  walked 
with  elastic  steps,  the  length  of  his  broad  gallery.  Now  and 
then,  he  paused  to  listen  to  the  merry  warblers;  the  melod}'  oi 
their  singing  had  never  before  entered  his  soul.  On  glancing 
at  the  river,  he  noticed  how  the  waves  sparkled  in  the  sunlight; 
he  even  contrasted  the  verdant  banks  and  peaceful  scenery  on 
the  opposite  shore,  with  the  intense  blue  of  the  water. 

Why  was  he  idle  on  that  day,  and  what  caused  the  strange 
workings  of  a  mind  hitherto  insensible  to  the  beauties  of  nature? 

Within  a  darkened  chamber  of  the  old  home,  two  bright 

eyes  strove  for  the  first  time  to   pierce  its  obscurity eyes 

destined  to  dispel  the  last  lingering  regrets  for  a  wasted  vouth, 
and  to  cheer  and  brighten  up  the  remaining  years  of  the  lonely 
couple.  The  coming  of  the  baby  was  the  crowning  event  of 
their  life.  Day  by  day,  they  watched  with  increasing  wonder 
and  happiness  the  unfolding  beauty  and  mental  qualities  of 
the  child. 

At  the  age  of  fourteen,  she  was  sent  to  the  8acred  Heart 
Convent,  then  the  most  prominent  female  school  in  the  State, 
She  acquired  accomplishments  which  added  considerably  to 
her  natural  advantages. 


RETROSPECTIONS.  17 

Her  fond  parents  and  former  companions  looked  upon  her 
as  a  prodigy;  but  Elise  never  made  a  display  of  her  superior 
knowledge.  The  sweetness  of  her  disposition  and  the  artless 
graciousness  of  her  manners,  won  her  the  friendship  of  all  who 
approached  her.  Her  beauty  was  of  that  unobstrusive  sort 
which  improves  under  scrutiny.  There  was  a  lack  of  brilliancy 
about  her  general  appearance ;  but  all  watched  with  pleasure, 
the  timid  glances  of  her  dark  eyes  and  the  sweet,  winning 
smile  which  parted  her  red  lips. 

One  of  the  events  on  False  Kiver,at  this  particular  period, 
was  a  "king  ball."  *rhis  was  an  affair  in  which  any  gentleman 
willing  to  assist  in  defraying  expenses,  was  entitled  to  the 
privilege  of  choosing  his  "queen."  The  maiden  whom  he  thus 
invested  with  regal  honors,  usually  received  his  undivided  at- 
tentions during  the  ball.  From  time  to  time,  Elise  Lafitte 
graced  with  her  presence  these  popular  gatherings.  On  such 
occasions,  the  boldest  and  handsomest  of  "cavaliers"  com- 
peted for  the  honor  ot  crowning  her  fair  brow  with  roses.  It 
was  at  one  of  these  balls,  that  a  distinguished  looking  stranger 
first  formed  her  acquintance.  The  fact  of  meeting  in  this 
community,  a  creole  who  spoke  the  English  language,  gave 
him  unexpected  pleasure,  as  well  as  an  excuse  for  lingering  at 
her  side — much  to  the  annoyance  of  older  admirers.  Her 
musical  voice,  enhanced  by  her  sweet  French  accent,  charmed 
him.  The  calm  dignity  of  her  beauty  and  other  winning 
graces,  captivated  his  heart. 

And  she  who  had  so  often  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  plead- 
ings of  the  Creole  boys,  listened  to  the  "American's"  love 
story  and  found  herself  vanquished  by  the  thrilling  glances  of 
his  dark-blue  eyes, 

Arthur  Hunt  was  a  Virginian  by  birth;  ihe  came  from  an 
old  aristocratic  family  who  had  lost  their  wealth  by  injudicious 
management.  Being  of  a  venturesome  turn  of  mind,  he 
launched  out  at  an  early  age  to  seek  his  fortune.  Time  and 
tide  drifted   him  to  this  romantic  part  of  the  parish  and  its 


18  ZtfLMA,    A    STORY   OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

quaint  population.  He  was  of  a  genial  disposition  and  ex- 
tremely clever;  consequently,  was  much  liked  by  the  Creole 
families. 

His  frank,  charming  manners  rendered  him  a  great  favorite 
among  the  ladies;  though  he  did  not  always  inspire  the  same 
friendl}'  feelings  in  the  hearts  of  the  younger  men  of  the 
country. 

The  air  of  ease  and  unstudied  elegance  with  which  he  car- 
ried himself,  his  tone  of  confidence  and  self-possession,  often 
subjected  him  to  unpleasant  experiences.  The  young  men 
looked  upon  him  as  an  interloper  and  dangerous  rival,  and 
somewhat  resented  the  ready  and  indispuitible  manner  in  which 
he  was  received  and  lionized  by  the  prominent  families  of  the 
communit3^  This  circumstance  only  stimulated  him  to  increase 
his  popularity  among  the  better  class,  and  to  render  himself 
truly  worth)  of  their  respect  and  friendship. 

With  a  little  assistance,  he  started  in  a  mercantile  enter- 
prise. There  were  few  stores  in  the  country  at  that  time,  and 
every  merchant  endowed  with  the  least  business  capacity  held 
the  nucleous  of  a  fortune. 

Mr.  Hunt's  unprecedented  success,  enboldened  him  to  ask 
for  the  hand  of  the  woman  he  loved.  When  he  presented 
himself  for  permission  to  address  their  daughter,  the  old  couple 
made  but  faint  resistance.  They  recalled  their  own  prolonged 
courtship  and  wasted  youth,  and  yielded  without  demur,  their 
heart's  treasure,  to  the  bold  and  handsome  suitor,  who,  in 
every  respect,  seemed  worthy  of  the  prize  to  which  he  aspired. 
The  wedding  took  place  in  the  old  home  where  the  numerous 
friends  and  admirers  of  the  happy  pair  flocked  to  offer  their 
congratulations. 

Mr.  Hunt  took  his  lovely  bride  to  an  attractive  and  com- 
fortable cottage  he  had  prepared  for  her  reception,  half  a  dozen 
miles  from  her  paternal  roof. 

After  their  daughter's  marriage,  Mr.  Lafitte  and  his  gentle 
wife,  once  more,  subsided  into  their  accustomed  ways. 

The  grave,  weather-beaten  husband  pursued  his  life  of 
toil  and  his  faithful  companion  plodded  by  his  side,  as  indus- 
trious and  economical  as  though  they  still  depended  on  their 
daily  labor  for  their  livelihood. 


AWAY    TO    THE    WOODS  !  l9 


CHAPTER  II. 

AWAY    TO    THE    WOODS ! 

A  QUARTER   of  a  century  prior  to   the  Confederate   war, 
False  River  and  the   adjacent  countr}',   formed  the  most 
interesting  region  in  Louisiana. 

It  was  famous  for  its  genial  and  salubrious  climate,  for 
the  fertility  of  its  soil  and  for  the  value  and  variety  of  its  for- 
est trees.  Bayous,  alive  with  the  finest  fish,  intersected  the 
country  and  diversified  its  scenery.  Many  of  the  planters  were 
immensely  wealthy  and  owned  plantations  which  extended  sev- 
eral miles  along  the  river  front.  Here,  primitive  homes  were 
seen  through  vistas  of  live  oaks,  catalpis  and  china  trees. 
Here,  the  people  lived  on  the  abundant  fruit  of  their  labor, 
undisturbed  and  oblivious  of  the  agitations  and  progress  of 
modern  lite. 

None  enjoyed  tran([uility  more;  none  dispensed  more 
liberal  hospitality  when  occasion  required.  No  wonder 
strangers  tarried  in  their  midst,  and  when  away,  longed,  once 
more,  to  taste  of  the  magic  waters  of  False  River. 

But  the  country  was  not  without  its  disadvantages.  The 
Mississippi  river,  at  certain  seasons  of  the  year,  became  a 
source  of  expense  and  annoj'ance  to  the  population  living  be- 
hind the  levees.  For  a  long  period,  especially  during  the 
French  and  the  Spanish  rule,  levees  had  been  kept  up  by  the 
front  proprietors,  though  in  time  of  danger,  planters  occupying 
alluvial  lands  back  of  the  river,  were  required  to  lend  assist- 
ance. But  in  1849,  Congress  passed  an  act,  donatinj^  to 
Louisiana,  the  swamps  and  lowlands  subject  to  overflows. 
This  concession  was  made  in  order  to  encourage  the  people  to 
purchase  the  lands  and  aid  in  the  construction  ,of  these  costly 
embankments. 


20  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Previous  to  this,  the  work  done  on  the  levees,  was  so  in- 
adequate iind  defeetiA^e,  that  no  reliance  could  be  placed  on 
them. 

Year  after  year,  they  succumbed  to  the  overwhelming 
waters  and  disastrous  overflows  spread  over  a  wide  extent  of 
territory.  The  front  lands  along  False  River  escaped  these 
inundations,  but  thousands  of  acres  which  rivaled  in  fertility, 
the  fruitful  valley  of  the  Nile,  lay  idle  in  consequence  of  this 
impending  danger. 

The  Grosse  Tete  country  was  then  a  trackless  wilderness; 
its  virgin  soil,  rich  beyond  description,  needed  but  the  plow- 
share and  seed  to  burst  into  fecundity.  Hitherto,  its  only 
paths  had  been  made  by  wild  beasts  and  cattle  roaming  in 
search  of  food.  The  Indian  and  the  hunter  were  the  only 
human  beings  who  had  traversed  them  or  built  camp-fires  in 
the  midst  of  its  luxurance. 

But  after  the  levees  had  been  strengthened  and  enlarged, 
the  enterprising  lost  no  time  in  seizing  opportunities  which 
they  knew  would  open  to  them  a  wide  avenue  to  future  wealth. 

People  from  all  parts  of  the  parish  turned  with  longing 
hearts  to  this  Land  of  Promise. 

Tlie  labor  of  leveling  the  forests  when  once  begun,  was 
prosecuted  with  incredible  zeal  and  expedition. 

Within  a  few  years,  passable  roads  were  made  across  the 
country  and  the  most  enterprising  adventurers  had  reared 
primitive  dwellings  among  the  stumps  on  the  freshly  cleared 
lands. 

From  the  east  bank  of  the  Mississippi,  from  the  tired  old 
hills,  the  people  came  and  cast  their  lots  with  those  who  had 
ventured  nearer  home.  On  False  River,  that  region  of  romance 
and  ethereal  loveliness,  merchants  and  planters  disposed  of 
their  property  to  invest  in  Grrosse  Tete  lands.  The  glowing 
accounts  the  new  settlers  gave  of  life  in  the   backwoods;  the 


AWAY   TO   THE    WOODS  !  21 

spontaneous  growth  of  the  crops  and  their  marvelous  yields; 
the  abundance  of  fish,  of  game;  the  fine  pasturage  and  numer- 
ous other  advantages,  induced  Mr.  Hunt  to  give  up  merchan- 
dizing in  order  to  launch  in  this  new  enterprise.  He  bought 
nearly  a  thousand  acres  of  this  public  land  and  began  clearing 
that  portion  of  it  fronting  baj'ou  Grosse  Tete.  In  less  than 
nine  months,  the  stalwart  force  he  had  put  to  work,  had 
cleared  and  prepared  for  cultivation  a  hundred  acres  of  the 
richest  land  in  the  valley  of  the  Mississippi;  and  a  year  after 
the  purchase,  a  dozen  substantial  buildings  had  been  erected 
among  the  blackened  stumps  and  cane  stubbles.  At  some 
distance  from  the  precipitous  bank  of  the  bayou,  stood  a  cabin, 
larger  and  more  commodious  than  those  destined  for  the 
slaves  ;  it  was  a  temporaiy  dwelling  for  the  master's  family. 
Mr  Hunt  remained  on  the  place  to  superintend  the  work,  and 
was,  for  many  months,  the  sole  occupant  of  this  lonely  abode. 
He  had  confided  his  wife  and  child  to  the  care  of  the  old  people 
at   '■^Cornea  Cheveruil." 

In  the  meantime,  he  hastened  the  arrangements  for  their 
reception;  he  could  no  longer  endure  life  without  their  com- 
panionship. 

The  day  of  their  departure  for  Grosse  Tete,  fell  on  a 
warm,  serene  morning  in  the  month  of  December,  such  a  De- 
cember as  dawns  in  Louisiana,  when  a  balmy  fall,  with  its 
genial  train,  precipitates  itsehf  into  the  arms  of  winter.  For 
a  fortnight,  the  south  winds  had  been  gamboling  over  the 
freshly  carpeted  earth,  and  the  mellow  rays  of  the  sun  had 
weaved  their  golden  shreds  about  the  leafless  branches  of  the 
trees.  The  mocking  birds  returned  to  their  haunts,  and  re- 
opened their  musical  career.  All  day  the  robins  and  sparrows 
chattered  unmindful  of  their  comrades,  that  from  time  to  timS; 
toppled  over,  igaomiuous     sLrangled  with  china  balls. 


22  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF   THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

During  the  last  week  of  Ler  sojourn  at  the  old  home,  Mrs. 
Hunt  found  a  melancholy  pleasure  in  watching  from  the  gal- 
lery, the  reflection  of  the  moon  on  False  Eiver.  She  confessed 
that  she  had  never  before  adequately  appreciated  the  splendor 
of  the  spectacle  until  the  time  came  to  leave  this  familiar  scene 
of  her  youth. 

Her  little  daughter,  Lucile,  then  scarcely  five  yeara  old, 
was  a  remaikably  interesting  and  intelligent  child.  She  had 
inherited  her  father's  fine  complexion  and  dark-blue  eyes,  and 
her  mother's  beautiful  mouth.  Her  face  was  exquisitely 
moulded  and  the  loveliest  of  dimples  played  hide-and-seek  on 
her  dainty  chin.  Lucile  had  become  the  idol  of  her  grandpar- 
ents, and  the  thought  of  separation  grieved  them  sorely.  It 
was  pitiful  to  witness  their  distress  on  the  day  of  her  departure 
for  Grosse  Tete.  They  cluag  to  her  till  the  last  moment,  call- 
ing her  by  the  most  endearing  names  their  love  suggested. 
^'■Chere  coeur,'  ^^bijon,"  '■^hien  ahnee,''  were  a  few, among  the 
affectionate  terms  they  bestowed  upon  her,  as  Mrs.  Hunt, 
with  a  dull,  aching  pain  at  her  heart,  withdrew  the  child  from 
their  detaining  arms. 

Mr.  Hunt  sent  Dave,  the  trusty  driver,  after  his  wife  and 
child;  he  himself  stayed  to  prepare  for  their  reception  and  to. 
extend  to  them,  the  welcome  they  so  richly  deserved.  He 
knew  that  the  anticipations  of  this  meeting,  would,  in  a  great 
measure,  assuage  the  pain  of  the  separation  with  the  lonel^^ 
old  people  and  perhaps,  divert  their  minds  from  the  dreary, 
and  uninviting  part  of  the  country  through  which  they  would 
pass,  on  their  homeward  journey. 

The  long  ride,  through  the  woods  and  canebrakes,  was 
fatiguing  and  monotonous  to  Mrs.  Hunt,  but  it  was  an  enjoya- 
ble one  to  Lucile,  who  often  amused  her  mother  with  her  cute 
observations.  During  one  of  her  silent  spells,  Mrs.  Hunt 
watched  with  affectionate  interest,  the  puzzled  expression  of 
the  child's  lively  countenance. 


AWAY   TO    THE    WOODS  !  23 

"Does  my  baby  find  the  trees  and  bashes  pretty?"  she 
asked,  toying  with  the  bright  ringlets  escaped  from  the  crimson 
hood.  "I'm  looking  at  the  long  ropes,  God  ties  the  trees 
with,"  answered  Lucile,  ca<?ting  a   solemn  look  on  her  mother. 

"Ropes!"  exclaimed  the  lad}',  laughing.  "Why,  darling, 
those  are  muscadine  vines. "" 

After  due  reflection,  Lucile  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
Uncle  Dave  had  lost  his  way  and  insisted  on  his  taking  them 
back  to  her  grandparents. 

"Too  late  fur  to  go  back  now,"  replied  the  old  man,  turn- 
ing to  cast  a  look  on  the  wistful  face.  "Don't  you  be  skeered; 
I's  takin  you  straight  ter  yo'  paw  an'  dem  rabbits  he  got  fur 
you. 

Lucile  rallied  after  this  eucourasfing  promipe,  and  at  every 
settlement,  strained  her  lovel}-  eyes,  trying  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  her  father.  She  was  too  full  of  pleasant  anticipations  to 
make  any  further  remarks.  But  when  they  reached  the  bank 
of  Grosse  Tete,  she  stood  up  in  the  carriage  and  leaned  out  of 
the  window  to  watch  the  alligators  swimming  across  the  bayou, 
and  the  grey  turtles  sunning  themselves  on  the  logs.  At  last, 
oh  joy!  she  beheld  her  father  crossing  a  lot  and  walking  with 
rapid  strides  towards  the  road.  How  handsome  he  looked, 
standing  upon  the  style,  bareheaded,  flushed  with  happiness 
and  frantically  wafting  them  a  welcome! 

"0  papa!  "  cried  Lucile,  throwing  herself  into  his  out- 
stretched arms.  "I've  brouglit  you  a  basket  of  tomatoes  and 
ever  so  many  pretty  flowers!  " 

"Bless  your  precious  heart!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hunt  kissing 
her  red  lips.      "Is  it  summer  time  out  on  False  River?  " 

"I — '  spect  so,  papa,"  answered  Lucile  gazing  around  on 
the  dreary  scenery,  but  its  winter  out  here,  aint  it?" 

Mr.  Hunt  gave  no  answer  to  the  child's  question,  but 
drew  his  wife  to  his  bosom,  saying: 


24  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF   THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"You  are  a  thousand  times  welcome,  darling.  How  I 
thank  you  for  coming!  '" 

Uncle  Dave,  the  silent  spectator  of  this  joyful  meeting 
and  re-union  of  loving  hearts,  chuckled  with  inward  satisfaction 
as  he  slowly  gathered  up  the  reins  to  drive  through  the  bars. 

The  little  family  crossed  the  rustic  stile  and  stepped  into 
an  enclosure,  where  felled  timber  and  cane  stubbles  were 
among  the  prominent  features  of  the  place. 

The  humble  dwelling,  which,  for  coming  years,  was  to  be 
their  home,  was  built  of  rough  weather-boarding, without  orna- 
ments of  any  sort,  save  a  coat  of  whitewash.  A  chimney  of 
hospitable  proportions  flanked  one  end  of  the  cabin;  two  small 
windows  were  the  onl}'  openings  at  the  other.  In  the  rear  of 
the  building,  was  a  bayou  of  considerable  size,  fringed  with 
rank  undergrowth.  Old  cypress  trees  grew  in  its  bed  and 
lifted  their  gaunt,  moss-laden  branches  high  above  the  thickets 
and  smooth  limbed  sapplings.  The  aspect  was  cheerless  even 
in  the  adorning  light  of  a  mid-day  sun,  and  Mrs.  Hunt  made 
strenuous  efforts  to  conceal  her  disappointment  and  overcome 
the  feeling  of  despondency  which  was  gradually  overpowering 
her  senses. 

On  perceiving  her  emotion,  her  husband  passed  his  arm 
around  her  slender  waist.  "It  will  not  be  thus,  always', 
dearest,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Bear  it  for  awhile,  for  my 
sake,  Elise." 

She  raised  towards  him  her  tearful,  (reproachful  eyes.  "O 
Arthur,  you  misjudge  me!  With  you.  any  place  on  earth  is 
paradise  to  me!  " 

Mr.  Hunt  drew  her  close  to  his  heart  and  tenderly  kissed 
her.  "Heaven  knows  how  d9e!')ly  I  appreciate  the  sacrifice 
you  have  made  for  me,  dear  Elise.  My  life's  devotion  shall 
repay  it!  " 

The  happy  couple  followed  the  heedless  child  who  bounded 
before  them  in  the  direction  of  the  cnbin-home,  where  her  papa 
had  informed  her,  she  would  find  the  rabbits. 


PIONEERING.  25 


CHAPTER  III. 

PIONEERING. 

/^UR  pioneers  soon  became  accustomed  to  their  lonely,  un- 
^-^  attractive  home  and  reconciled  to  the  many  privations 
entailed  on  them  by  reason  of  the  distance  which  separated 
them  from  the  social  world. 

Mrs.  Hunt  did  not  adapt  herself  as  readily  to  her  sur- 
roundings as  Lucile  did. 

The  new  life  proved  ver}'  congenial  to  the  child's  nature. 
She  loved  to  roam  over  the  place,  among  the  bushes  and  trail- 
ing vines  where  "lived  the  frolicsome  squirrels  and  rabbits. " 
Many  a  time  she  came  to  her  mother  with  interesting  descrip- 
tions of  the  snakes  she  had  seen  dangling  from  the  thickets, 
or  found  beautifully  coiled  in  the  wagon  track.  On  fine  days, 
she  was  allowed  to  accompany  her  father  to  the  field,  where 
she  spent  her  time  diligently  hunting  for  water  lilies  for  her 
mother,  or  watching  the  hands  at  work. 

She  would  stand  on  the  headlands  and  watch,  with  childish 
delight,  the  gleaming  plow-shares  cutting  into  the  earth  and 
upturning  in  undulant  furrows,  the  rich,  mellow  soil. 

The  plantation  was  intersected  by  numerous  ba3'ous,  which 
by  the  way,  served  the  purpose  of  drainage;  whenever  she 
wished  to  go  across  any  of  these,  one  of  the  hands  placed  her 
on  his  shoulder  and  carried  her  over.  The  honor  was  generally 
conferred  upon  Jonas,  a  jovial  hearted  fellow,  who  was  alwa3's 
but  too  glad  to  drop  his  hoe  for  a  few  minutes'  frolic. 

With  Lucile  comfortably  perched  on  his  back,  he  would 
caper  around  in  imitation  of  an  unmanageable  horse.  These 
manoeuvres  always  delighted  the  child ;  her  mirth  and  ringing 
laughter  only  served  to  emulate  the  darkie  to  further  alarming 
demonstrations. 


26  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

No  matter  how  pressing  the  work,  Mr.  Hunt  never 
interfered  witli  Lucile's  amusements.  One  morning  in  spring, 
the  first  she  spent  on  the  place,  she  started  off  as  usual,  on  one 
of  her  rambles  to  meet  her  father.  As  was  her  wont,  she 
called  upon  Jonas  to  carr}'  her  across  one  of  the  bayous. 

"Now,  you  grab  hold  as  tight  as  you  kin,  little  misses," 
said  Jonas  falling  on  his  knees  and  throwing  off  his  old  slouch 
hat,   "for  dis  yere  hawse,  he  got  de  debil  in  'im  dis  morning." 

After  an  unusual  display  of  equestrian  feats,  such  as 
pitching,  rearing  and  snorting,  Jonas  leaped  on  the  opposite 
bank  and  collapsed  on  all  fours. 

"Clum  off,  little  misses,"  he  said,  puffing  and  blowing. 
"Clam  off,  I  say.      Dis  here  hawse  dun  cross  ober  dat  ribber. " 

Lucile  clutched  the  tighter  to  his  wooly  locks  and  strenu- 
ously refused  to  dismount. 

"Git  otT,  chile,"  he  continued,  giving  her  a  vigorous 
shake,  and  rolling  his  eyeballs  in  protest.  '  'Dis  yere  animal' 
dun  win-broke;  sides  dat,  he  got  his  row  to  hoe.  ' 

But  bis  appeal  was  in  vain;  Lucile  shook  with  decision 
her  shining  curls. 

"I  shant  get  off,  Jonas,  till  you  uncross  that  bayou!  " 

"Lawd,  hevp  mercy  'pon  my  soul,"  cried  Jonas,  casting- 
an  eye  across  the  cut  where  a  cloud  of  dust  indicated  the 
progress  of  his  squad;  "she's  clutchin' on  ter  me  reg'ler  as  a 
tick,  and  how  she's  gwine  to  be  took  oft',  is  more'n  den  I  kin 
tell." 

•Unmindful  of  his  distress,  Lucile  secured  a  firmer  hold  of 
the  slave's  natty  hair  and  tugged  at  it  with  unflagging  determi- 
nation. "Get-along!  Get-along!  "  she  cried,  beating  her  tiny 
heels  against  his  lust}'  chest.  Seeing  no  chance  for  respite, 
the  unfortunate  Jonas  recommenced  his  equine  exploits. 

After  a  repetition  of  frantic  vaults  and   feints  to  over- 


PIONEERING.  27 

throw  bis  tireless  rider,  the  complaisant  slave,  once  more' 
dropped  on  his  knees.  "Dere!  "  he  exclaimed,  wiping  witEi' 
his  sleeve  the  great  drops  of  perspiration  which  trickled  down, 
his  ebony  cheeks.      "I's  gwine  to  ketch  a  lickin'  sho!" 

"But  didn't  we  have  fun  though?  '  asked  Lucile  brushing, 
back  the  tangled  hair  from  her  laughing  eyes. 

''You  dun  troo  wid  yo'  fun  little  missus.  AVhen  yoir 
hears  me  hollowin'  ober  dere,  you  can  be  satisfied-,  I's  gittio.' 
mine."' 

"Who  are  you  going  to  ride  Jonas?  "  asked  she  with 
some  misgiving  in  her  voice. 

"Who?"  exclaimed  he,  staring  significantly  into  her 
questioning  eyes.  "Its  Uncle  Dave  gwine  to  ride  me.  Didn't 
I  teil  ye  I's  gwiue  to  ketch  a  lickin'.  "' 

Just  at  this  moment,  Lucile  spied  her  father  walking  rap- 
idly across  the  cut. 

"0  papa!  "  she  cried,  running  to  meet  him,  "Jonas  had 
to  cross  me  over  the  bayou  and  he  won't  catch  a  lickin',  will 
he?" 

Mr.  Hunt  pretended  to  examine  the  case  with  due  consid- 
eration. "I  shall  turn  him  over  to  Uncle  Dave, '"  he  answered, 
with  solemn  gravity. 

Such  a  decision  set  Jonas  to  a  vigorous  scratching  of  his 
pate . 

"She  made  me  do  it,  marster;  'sisted  on  me  crossin'  an'' 
uncrossin'  dat  er  bayou." 

"Indeed,  I  did,"  cried  Lucile,  coming  to  his  rescue. 

"Very  well,  Jonas,"  replied  his  master,  you  certainly  had 
to  obey  the  orders  of  your  little  mistress.  "Tell  Uncle  Dave  I 
say  it's  all  right." 

The  light-hearted  negro  dropped  to  the  ground,  turned  a( 
somersault  and  gave  a  whoop  which  the  woods  flung  back  in" 
wild  echoes. 


28  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Life  was  not  altogether  cheerless  to  the  inmates  of  the 
little  cabin  home.  During  the  coarse  of  summer,  they  enter- 
tained many  friends  and  relatives  from  ' 'le  sol  nafif."  The 
place  appeared  to  visitors  like  a  God-forsaken  wilderness;  its 
proximity  to  the  woods  increased  its  dreariness  of  aspect. 
They  missed  the  dusty  highway  and  the  lovely  sheet  of  water 
Jtheir  eyes  were  accustomed  to  rest  upon. 

It  was  with  pardonable  pride  that  Mr.  Hunt  piloted  his 
friends  through  the  broad  acres  under  cultivation. 

The  old  planters  of  False  River,  who  were  accustomed  to 
a  rigid  and  undeviating  mode  of  management,  were  staggered 
at  his  loose  experiments  and  the  success  w-hich  crowned  them. 

The  generous  soil  yielded  such  abundant  crops,  that  there 
was  alwaj's  a  surplus  of  farm-truck  on  the  plantation. 

There  was  no  finer  country  for   stock;  they  throve  and 

multiplied  in  magnificent  canebrakes,  which  Mr.  Hunt  enclosed 

for  pasturage.      And  many  were  the  pounds  of  delicious  butter 

turned  from  the    churn  in  the   little  dairy-house   beneath  the 

X)aks. 

Grosse  Tete  melons  were  proverbial  for  their  flavor  and 

extraordinary  size.      The  negroes  on  the   place  had  full  run  of 

the  patch   as  well  as  the  orchard,  wherein,    all   summer,    they 

feasted  on  lucious  peaches. 

Mr.  Hunt  encouraged  his  slaves  to  cultivate  their  own 
gardens  and  potato  patches,  and  to  raise  chickens.  Hence,  it 
was  no  unusual  custom  for  the  women  to  place  before  their 
families,  a  tempting  omelet  or  a  bowl  of  iragrant  gomho-JiH 
with  the  more  substantial  hunck  of  pork  or  bacon. 

One  summer  evening  the  Hunt  family  were  seated  on  their 
little  gallery  enjoying  the  moonlight  and  listening  to  the  soft 
rustle  of  leaves  in  the  neighboring  trees  when  they  w'ere  sud- 
denly startled  by  a  loud,  blood-curdling  shriek  which  proceeded 
from  a  group  of  bearded  oaks,  on  the  banks  of  the  bayou. 


PIONEERING.  29"^ 

Lucile  started  from  her  comfortable  attitude  on  ber ' 
father's  knee,  and  looking  up  into  bis  face,  said,  smiling: 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  owls  now  papa." 

"You  were  silly  to  be  afraid  of  tbem  before,  Birdie.'' 
"Once  upon  a  time,  you  were  under  the  impression  that  they 
craved  as  much  for  a  little  girl  like  you  for  a  supper  as  they 
did  for  one  of  your  mamma's  fat  chickens.' 

"Indeed  I  did;  and  when  I  heard  them  crying  like  that 
one,  I  used  to  cover  up  my  head  and  say  a  prayer.  " 

"Hush! — listen!  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hunt,  laying  her  band-' 
on  her  child's  head. 

"How  exquisite!  "  said  ber  husband. 

"Who  is  singing,  mamma?  " 

"How  can  I  tell?  One  would  think  Jennie  Lind  was  sere- 
nading the  darkies." 

The  voice  which  had  arrested  Mrs.  Hunt's  attention,  pro- 
ceeded from  the  negro  quarters.  It  was  a  powerful,  but  flute- 
like soprano.  The  clear,  pure  notes  seemed  to  drop  from  the 
singer's  lips  like  a  shower  of  pearls. 

The  air,  "Les  Roses, "  was  a  familiar  one  to  Mrs.  Hunt, 
and  it  was  rendered  with  charming  melody  and  precision. 

When,  at  last,  the  brilliant  notes  died  away  in  the  still-  - 
ness  of  night,  the  melody  of  it  still  lingered  on  the  ears  of - 
those  it  had  fascinated. 

"Who  can  it  be?"  Mrs.  Hunt  asked  of  her  husband, 
"That  was  the  most  beautiful  voice  I  ever  heard.' 

"May  be  it  was  an  angel  singing"  suggested  Lucile. 

"It  would  be  ridiculous  for  an  angel  to  sing  a  waltz-song,, 
would  it  not  dear?  "  answered  her  father. 

His  curiosity  was  aroused,  however,  and  he  went  to  the 
quarters  to  ascertain  who  was  the  extraordinary  singer. 

When  he  returned,  there  was  a  mischevious  twinkle  in  his- 
eyes. 


30  /ULMA,    A    STORYCOP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"Well,  who  is  the  prima-dona?  "  asked  Mrs.  Hunt. 

"Tell  us  quick,  papa,  did  you  really  see  her?"  asked 
liUcile. 

"I  was  permitted  to  gaze  upon  the  light  of  her  counte- 
jiance  ' 

"Was  she  ver}-  beautiful?"  inquired  Lucile,  with  eager- 
ines.s. 

'  'She  is  as  black  as  the  ace  of  spades. " 

"One  of  our  women?  "  asked  Mrs.  Hunt. 

"Yes;  it  was  Zulma,  the  girl  I  bought  at  old  Landry's 
sale,  yesterday." 

"Why,  she  has  a  glorious  voice,  Arthur,  What  shall  we 
do  with  a  slave  endowed  with  such  a  gift?  " 

"I  gave  fitteen  hundred  dollars  for  her;  she  promises  to 
,make  a  splendid  field-hand."' 

"I  wish  you  would  send  her  to  me  to-morrow  morning.  I 
am  anxious  to  see  her." 

"Not  with  the  intention  of  spoiling  her,  I  hope.  Elise?  " 

"Give  me  credit  for  having  more  common  sense,  dear 
husband,"  replied  Mrs.  Hunt  rising.  "Lucile,  kiss  your  papa 
.■good  night;  it  is  bedtime." 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  the  foUowina  morning,  Zulma 
wajked  up  to  the  house  and  planted  herself  in  the  back  door 
-of  the  dining-room.  Naturally,  Mrs.  Hunt  had  formed  her 
ideas  of  the  appearance  of  the  sweet  singer,  but  the  reality  fell 
;60  short  of  the  ideal,  that  it  was  with  a  mental  effort  she  over- 
came her  surprise.  She  expected  to  see  a  full  grown  girl,  with 
a  serious  mouth  and  eyes,  restless  with  the  fire  of  pent  up 
genius;  the  girl  who  stood  before  her,  though  nearlj'  sixteen 
years  of  age,  was  small,  plump,  but  as  straight  as  an  arrow. 
She  was  quick  and  lithesome  in  her  movements,  and  held  up 
•iier  head  with  an  air  of  independence,  which  Mrs.  Hunt 
ithought  quite  unbecoming  for  one  in   her  station.     Her  lips, 


PIONEERING.  31 

■whence  had  flowed  the  pearly  notes  of  the  waltz-song,  were 
uncommonly  well-shaped,  for  one  of  her  color.  When  she 
smiled,  a  set  of  faultless  teeth  gleamed  behind  them.  Her 
eyes  twinkled  with  intelligence. 

"Well,  Zulma,  how  do  you  like  the  place?  "  asked  her 
mistress  with  a  kindly  smile. 

"Putty  wile  sort  of  a  place  fur  me,"  replied  Zulma,  in  no 
very  amiable  mood. 

"You  seemed  to  be  enjoying  yourself  last  night,  we  heard 
you  singing." 

"I  sings  mos'  all  de  time." 

'  'Indeed !  Who  taught  you  the  songs  you  sang  last  night?  " 

"I  cotch  'em  from  my  little  mistis. " 

"Some  of  these  evenings,  you  must  come  and  sing  for 
Lucile. " 

A  broad  grin  overspread  Zulma's  features. 

"Dat  little  gal  over  dere,  ma'am?"  asked  she,  nodding 
in  the  direction  where  Lucile  stood. 

"Yes,  that's  your  little  mistress:  you  must  not  call  her 
'gal'  again." 

"No'em,  I  won't;'"  rieplied  Zulma,  gazing  admiringly  on 
her  young  mistress. 

"She's  a  pooty  gal!  "  The  words  fell  inadvertently  from 
her  lips ;  she  started  and  glanced  timidly  at  Mrs,  Hunt  who 
pretended  to  ignore  the  mishap. 

"Have  you  eaten  your  breakfast?  "  she  asked  kindly. 

"Dere  it;"  responed  the  girl,  tapping  the  tin  bucket  which 
Ihung  on  her  arm. 

"But  ham  and  buttered  biscuits  are  nicer  than  what  you 
have  here"  said  Lucile,  uncovering  her  bucket. 

"Look,  mamma,  only  fried  meat  and  corn  dodgers.  Shall 
I  give  her  an  eog  too?  " 


32  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"One  day's  indulgence  will  not  spoil  her,  I  bope.  Offer 
lier  a  cup  of  coffee,  Lucile,"  added  Mrs.  Hunt  smiling. 

After  Zulma  had  drank  her  coffee,  Mrs.  Hunt  said  to  her: 

"I  shall  not  keep  you  here  longer,  child,  Uncle  Dave 
might  not  like  it. 

"Who  dat,  you  calls  unkle  Daye?  " 

"One  of  the  hands — an  overseer;  he  keeps  the  others 
straight  during  your  master's  absence." 

"Sakes!  I  knows  he  goin'  to  skin  me.  " 

"Not  if  you  do  your  work  right  and  obey  orders." 

"I  don't  speck  it'tle  make  much  difrunce  dough;  my  po 
back  dun  use  to  cowhide." 

"Perhaps,  you  do  not  know,  that  you  have  the  best  and 
kindest  of  masters?  " 

"Dey  tells  me  so." 

"Then,  I  hope  you  will  l)ehave  yourself  so  well,  as  never 
to  need  a  whipping." 

Zulma  turned  upon  her  mistress  with  an  incredulous  stare, 
then  burst  into  laughter;  but  it  was  a  sort  of  a  nervous  hilar- 
ity which  she  quickl}'  subdued.  "l"s  gwine  to  do  my  bes'," 
she  said,  with  a  scared  look,  •  'an'  I  aint  gwine  to  run  off,  eider, 
if  I  kin  hep  it." 

"You  will  not  improve  your  conrlition  by  running  off, 
Zulma;  and  that  is  one  thing  the  people  on  this  place  never  do. 
It  is  to  be  hoped,  you  will  not  set  them  the  bad  example." 

•'I  hain't  gwine  to  set  'em  notin'  bad,  'cept  dey  gib  me 
sass;  I  nebber  take  dat  frum  no  nigger;  but  I's  gwine  to  do  my 
bes"  fur  de  master,  befo'  de  Lawd,  I  is." 

"You  may  go  now  Zulma,"  said  her  mistress. 

"The  slave  took  up  her  bucket  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

"She's  a  case"  remarked  Mrs.  Hunt. 

"That  means  she's  bad,  mamma?'"  asked  Lucile  with 
some  concern. 


PIONEERING.  33 

"Yes,  that  she  has  a  character  of  her  own  and  may  give 
trouble." 

"Why  did  God  give  her  such  a  tine  voice,  mamma?  He 
should  have  given  it  to  a  white  girl." 

•'You  must  not  speak  about  God  in  that  way,  Lucile,  nor 
question  His  motives.  Poor  Zulma  is  doomed  to  a  life  of 
slavery;  her  love  for  singing  may,  in  a  great  measure,  lighten 
her  labor  and  give  her  the  only  pleasure  she  can  enjoy  in  this 
world." 

"Y''ou  make  me  sorry  mamma,  for  Zulma  and  all  the 
darkies  working  in  the  field." 

"There  are  thousands  of  poor  white  people  ten  times 
worse  otf  than  our  negroes,  dear.  Do  you  not  think  your  papa 
kind  to  his  slaves?  Are  they  not  well  fed,  well  clothed,  and 
have  they  not  good,  comfortable  homes  to  live  in?  " 

"Yes — but — must  they  not  work  in  the  field  for  their 
masters,  whether  they  want  to  or  not? '" 

'  'Why  yes ;  they  are  bought  for  that  purpose.      Every  one 
must  work  for  a  living  unless  he  has  money." 
"Will  the  negroes  ever  get  rich,  mamma?  " 
The  child's  simple  question   embarrassed  the  woman  and 
while  deliberating  with  herself  for  a  plausible  answer,  Lucile 
came  to  her  relief. 

"1  reckon  the}'  will, mamma,"  said  she  meditatingly,  they 
sell  so  many  eggs  to  the  people  out  on  False  River. 

"They  certainly  do,  my  love,  and  I  am  sure  some  of  them 
have  laid  aside  snug  little  fortunes,  that  is,  a  sufficient  sum  to 
buy  their  fineries  and  trinkets ;  they  are  in  need  of  nothing 
else,  I  imagine." 

That  evening  Lucile  and  her  mother  walked  back  through 
the  fields  to  look  at  the  crops. 

They  met  the  hands  on  their  way  home. 


34  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Mrs.  Hunt,  whose  sensitive  heart  had  been  disturbed  by 
unusual  doubts  and  emotions  brought  up  by  Lucile's  questions 
on  the  subject  of  shivery,  now  listened  with  strange  satisfac- 
tion to  the  peals  of  laughter  which  came  from  the  light-hearted 
laborers.  "They  are  happy,  even  after  a  day's  toil,"  thought 
she;  "that  joyous  ring  certainly  comes  from  a  contented 
heart."     And  her  own  leaped  gladly  at  the  thought. 

Mr.  Hunt  had  purchased  Zulma  for  a  field  hand,  and  she 
proved  an  uncommonly  valuable  one.  Her  laborious  occupa- 
tions never  interfered  with  her  gayety;  the  woods  and  brakes 
daily  resounded  with  the  echoes  of  her  thrilling  songs.  She 
was  light-hearted  and  chuck  full  of  worldly  love,  a  fact  which 
rendered  her  an  acquisition  to  the  quarters. 

About  six  weeks  after  the  purchase  of  this  interesting 
slave,  she  suddenly  vanished  from  the  premises.  Search  and 
Inquiries  failed  to  throw  light  on  the  cause  of  her  disappear- 
ance. Mr,  Hunt  was  a  kind  master;  the  improbability  of  her 
abscondence  lett  no  doubt  that  the  girl  had  met  with  some  dire 
misfortune.  After  the  lapse  of  a  few  days,  and  when  the  mas- 
ter had  become  somewhat  reconciled  to  his  loss,  to  his  aston- 
ishment, the  creature  glided  like  a  ghost  in  his  path  and  throw- 
ing herself  upon  her  knees,  exclaimed: 

"Oh  master,  pardon  me!  as  long  as  I  lib,  I  nebber  do  dat 
agin." 

Her  features  were  haggard  and  her  shrunken  eyes  betrayed 
suffering  from  privations  and  exposure. 

"Where  in  the  world  have  you  been  and  what  has  hap- 
pened to  you,  my  poor  girl?  "  asked  Mr.  Hunt. 

"I  was  gone  "marron,"  master,  I  was  dun  run  off." 

"And  in  tlie  name  of  goodness,  what  put  you  into  the 
notion  of  running  off  from  me." 


PIONEERING.  35 

"For  de  life  on  ine,  I  can't  tell,  marster;  dat  was  jist  my 
way  of  doin'  wid  my  todder  master.  If  you  don't  wip  me  dis 
time,  I  nebber  do  dat  agin;  befo'  de  Lawd,  I  won't." 

It  WHS  difficult  for  Mr.  Hunt  to  control  his  humor.  The 
idea  of  the  girl  running  off  from  comfortable  quarters  from 
mere  impulse  or  habit,  was  one  extremely  ludicrous  to  him. 

It  was  with  an  effort  that  he  maintained  his  dignity  and 
concealed  his  propensity  to  burst  into  laughter. 

He  ordered  her  to  "march  to  the  quarters."  Dusk  was 
rapidly  setting  over  the  landscape.  Old  Dave,  the  overseer  or 
general  manager  among  the  blacks,  was  busily  engaged  in 
splitting  a  lot  of  kmdling  wood.  He  dropped  his  axe  and 
stared  at  the  emaciated  form  in  bewilderment. 

"Here  is  our  runawa}-,  Dave,"  said  Mr.  Hunt.  "She 
looks  as  though  she  has  been  sufficiently  punished  for  her 
escapade,  don't  you  think?  " 

Dave  scrutinized  the  culprit. 

"She  want  grub  wurser  den  a  wipin',  marster." 

"I  should  think  so;  I  shall  take  her  to  the  house  and 
have  her  wants  attended  to." 

"Dat's  de  bess  3'ou  kin  do  fur  'er,  jis  now,"  answered 
Dave,  picking  up  his  axe,   "termorrer,  I'll  see  to  her." 

"Let  the  punishment  be  light,  Dave." 

"Don't  3'ou  bother,  marster,  'twont  hurt  'er  much." 

"Have  you  found  her  papa?  "  joyfully  cried  Lucile,  run- 
ning to  meet  them.  "Oh!  mamma,  here's  poorZulma!  Were 
you  lost,  Zulma,  lost  in  the  woods  among  the  bears?  "  "Do 
tell  me  all  about  it.      You  had  a  dreadful   time,  hadn't  you?  " 

The  girl  maintained  a  sullen  silence  and  hung  her  head  in 
mortification. 

"Zulma  has  been  a  bad  girl,  dear,  and  is  quite  undeserv- 
ing of  your  sympathy.  She  ran  off  from  us  of  her  own  free 
will." 


36  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

A  painful  expression  settled  over  the  child's  features. 

"You  promised  mamma  never  to  do  it." 

"I  wont  do  it  agin,"  cried  Zulma. 

I'm  sure  she  will  keep  her  word  this  time,  papa;  you  are 
not  going  to  punish  her  are  you? 

"No,  not  I,"  replied  he  evasively.  "Now  pet,  go  in  and 
give  our  runaway  a  good  supper;  she  is  in  sore  need  of  it." 

The  next  morning  Dave  stood  on  the  )3ank  of  the  bayou  in 
the  rear  of  the  house,  apparently  watching  the  hands  as  they 
filed  off  to  their  day's  labor.  Zulma  with  her  hoe  thrown  over 
her  shoulder,  slowly  followed  her  squad.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
bayou,  a  couple  of  logs  served  for  a  temporary  bridge.  Just 
as  Zulma  reached  this  spot,  Dave  pounced  upon  her  and 
dragged  her  down  the  steep  embankment. 

It  so  happened,  that  Lucile,  on  this  particular  morning,, 
had  taken  a  notion  to  catch  a  mess  of  crawfish.  Line  in  hand, 
she  appeared  on  the  scene,  just  as  Dave  had  reached  the  crossing. 

"Where  are  you  going  with  Zulma,  Uncle  Dave?  "  she 
asked  with  evident  surprise. 

"I's  gwine  to  duck  'er,  little  missis;"  he  responded,  strug- 
gling to  get  a  firm  hold  of  Zulma's  hands. . 

"And  what  for?  you  bad  old  man,  you!  " 

"Cause  she  dun  run  otf  frum  yo'  paw,  honey." 

"But  Uncle  Dave,  if  you  drown  Zulma,  papa  will  be 
awfully  mad"  cried  Lucile  with  a  sob,  and  at  the  same  time, 
going  down  to  the  rescue,   "let  her  loose.  Uncle!  " 

'  'You  go  long,  little  misses,  I  aint  gwine  ter  dron  de  gal, 
I's  jist  washin'  the  liveliness  out  'er  her.'' 

And  without  further  ceremony,  he  jerked  the  terrified  girl 
from  the  log  and  plunged  her  several  times  into  the  water. 

Zulma  yelled.  Lucile  screamed  in  concert  and  called  her 
father  with  all  her  might  to  come  to  Zulma's  assistance. 


PIONEERING.  37 

The  water  in  the  baj^ou  was  only  a  few  feet  deep,  but  the 
tact  did  not  lessen  the  unpleasantness  of  the  sousing  to  Zulma, 
who  firmly  believed  that  Dave  was  trying  his  best  to  drown 
her. 

''Dere,  now,  you  little  runaway  'eathen,  you,"  he  cried, 
releasing  her  hands,  I  dun  turn  you  in  ter  regler  hard-shell 
Baptis'."      "Doan  you  uiver  call  yo'self  Catlick  no  more." 

This  novel  mode  of  punishment  permanently  cured  Zulma 
of  her  unnatural  propensity  to  escape  from  her  work,  and  Uncle 
Dave  was  never  again  called  upon  to  repeat  the  chastisement. 


38  ZDLMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN    CHALPA    SWAMP. 

MR.  HUNT  owned  a  valuable  cypress  swamp  several  miles 
distance  in  the  rear  of  his  plantation.  Here,  in  this 
aboriginal  forest  of  giant  timber,  he  erected  a  large  sawmill. 
There  was  at  that  time  a  great  demand  for  lumber  and  Mr. 
Hunt,  without  neglecting  his  crop,  continued  to  furnish  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  it  to  the  settlers.  At  certain  periods  dur- 
ing the  course  of  the  year,  he  withdrew  from  the  field  part  of 
his  laborers  whom  he  dispatched  to  the  swamp  under  the  care 
of  a  foreman  and  engineer. 

These  were  provided  with  safe  quarters  upon  the  elevated 
platform  of  the  mill. 

The  adjunct  of  a  capacious  mud  chimney  contributed 
greatly  to  the  comfort  of  the  campers,  and  thej'  needed  only 
their  blankets,  their  rations,  an  oven  and  a  skillet  to  complete 
their  domestic  outfit  and  make  life  as  enjoyable  as  it  was  out 
on  the  plantation. 

The  woods  were  full  of  game,  and  there  was  always  a  coon 
or  a  rabbit  baking  on  the  hearth. 

After  their  evening  meal,  the  darkies  were  accustomed  to 
sit  out  in  the  moonlight  confabulating,  or  singing  plantation 
songs  with  real  break-down  choruses.  And  yet,  these  jolly 
rogues,  in  order  to  establish  a  reputation  as  heroes,  carried  home 
the  most  exaefgerated  accounts  of  the  hardships  of  life  in 
Chalpa.  The  remoteness  of  this  dismal  region  from  the  settle- 
ments, tendered  to  increase  its  manifold  dangers  and  fascina- 
tions. The  credulous  were  made  to  believe  that  in  the  shift, 
ing  shadows  of  the  twilight,  gaunt  cypresses  assumed  the  forms 


IN   CHALPA     SWAMP.  39l 

of  ghosts,  stalking  silently  in  the  gloom.  That  the  air  re- 
sounded with  unearthly  grunts  and  cries;  the  deadly  moccasia 
and  venomous  reptiles  crawled  beneath  the  bushes  and  infested 
every  corner  of  their  temporary  domicile.  The  ba}''ou  near  the 
mill  was  alive  with  alligators  splashing  in  its  turbid  waters; 
the  woods  were  full  of  howling  wolves,  wild  cats  and  panthers. 
During  the  day,  the  whirr  and  buzz  of  the  wheel  and  saw 
"scared  away"  these  unwelcome  creatures,  but  at  nightfall 
gruesome  birds  emerged  from  their  haunts,  flocks  of  croaking 
buzzards  and  screech-owls  flapped  their  ghoulish  wings  among 
the  trees. 

Such  were  the  tales  related  by  the  swampers  to  their  fel- 
low-laborers at  home;  and  Zulma  communicated  them  to 
Lucile.  The  subject  became  a  very  fascinating  one  to  the 
child  and  she  was  seized  with  an  ungovernable  desire  to  look, 
upon  a  scene  thus  teeming  with  untold  perils  and  enchantment. 
For  a  time,  her  father  remained  deaf  to  her  pleading  for  per- 
mission to  ride  behind  him  on  one  of  his  frequent  visits  to  the 
mill. 

Her  perseverance,  at  length,  won  his  consent. 

It  was  a  warm,  sultry  afternoon,  in  the  latter  part  of 
August.  In  order  to  avoid  the  heat,  they  concluded  to  make 
the  trip  through  the  woods  by  following  a  cattle  track  which 
led  directly  to  the  sawmill. 

"We  shall  be  in  time  for  supper,"  said   Mr.  Hunt  to  his 
wife,  as  he  lifted   the  delighted  Lucile  to  a  seat  behind   him, 
'  'but  in  case  night  overtakes  us  out  there  we  shall  make  up 
our  minds  to  camp  out.     Get  Zulma  to  stay  with   you  till  our 
return." 

He  spoke  in  a  jesting  tone,  but  a  shade  of  uneasiness, 
swept  across  his  wife's  countenance. 

"Please  do  not  jest  on  so  serious  a  subject,"  she  answered 
reproachfully.      "I  shall  be  worried  to  death  if  you  do  not  re- 


40  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

turu  to-uiglit.  Wh}',  you  ina}'  be  attacked  by  a  bear  or  a  wild- 
cat, or  be  bitten  bv  a  rattlesnake!  " 

"Lupus  wont  let  'em  bite,  mamma,"  cried  Lucile  with 
trustful  readiness.  "Hell  bark  and  drive  all  the  bears  and 
snakes  out  of  the  woods." 

The  riders  found  the  cattle  path  inconveniently  narrow, 
besides,  their  passage  through  the  woods  was  greatly  retarded 
by  the  projecting  limbs  of  trees.  But  it  was  pleasant  riding 
beneath  the  cool  shade,  and  there  was  fun  dodging  the  vines 
and  branches.  They  came  across  the  cows;  at  the  sound  of 
Lucile's  familiar  voice  they  ceased  browsing  and  stared  at  her 
with  astonishment  depicted  in  their  soft,  questioning  eyes. 

"The  darlings!  "  exclaimed  Lucile,  "they  think  it  funny 
to  see  me  out  here;  eh,  papa?" 

"No  doubt,  pet;  and  they  think  we  have  no  right  to  be 
tramping  over  their  pasture  and  intruding  on  their  privacy," 

Lucile's  quick  eye  detected  a  variety  of  plants  which  had 
hitherto  escaped  her  father's  notice.  She  pointed  out  to  him 
a  bouquet  of  magnificent  ferns  luxuriating  in  the  trunk  of  a 
hollow  tree,  a  rustic  vase  in  Nature's  conservatory. 

All  along  the  route  her  little  fingers  clutched  at  the  allur- 
ing leaves,  blossoms,  or  bunches  of  wild  grapes  falling  within 
her  reach.  Now,  they  dived  into  a  golden  mass  of  love-vine 
rioting  over  a  thorn  bush;  then  grasped  a  cluster  of  flowing 
trumpet  flowers,  or  a  panicle  of  purple  asters.  The  gaudy 
woodpeckers  clinging  to  the  bark  of  the  trees  reminded  her  of 
tiger  lilies  flung  there  by  a  gust  of  wind.  At  every  turn  they 
came  across  rabbits  and  squirrels  which  Lupus  dutif  nil}'  chased 
out  of  sight. 

So  absored  were  the  minds  of  our  travelers  in  rural  obser- 
vations, they  were  totally  unconscious  of  the  change  which  had 
taken  place  in  the  weather,  until  a  canopy  of  black  clouds  was 


IN    CHALPA    SWAMP.  41 

suddenly  drawn  across  the  heavens.  Its  threatening  aspect 
alarmed  Mr.  Hunt;  he  increased  his  speed  that  he  might  reach 
his  journey's  end  before  the  outbreak  of  the  approaching  storm. 
The  noise  of  the  engine  fell  gratefully  upon  his  ear.  A 
blast  of  cold  wind  swooped  upon  the  woods  just  as  they  reached 
the  sawmill.  Amid  the  loud  commotion  of  wind  among  the 
swaying  branches  and  creaking  timber,  Mr.  Hunt  heard  with 
dismay,  the  sharp  and  omiuious  cracking  of  the  fabric  which 
was  the  only  shelter  within  reach.  At  this  moment,  some  of 
the  hands  came  rushing  in  carrying  their  working  imi)lements; 
at  the  sight  of  their  master,  they  broke  into  exclamations  of 
surprise: 

"Lawd,  yere's  marstar!  " 

"Sake's  alive!   an'  he  dun  brung  de  gal  wid  'im!  " 

"Whar  you  cum  frum,  marstar?"  asked-one  taking  his 
master's  bridle  rein.      "Was  dat  you  bring  dis  yere  blow?  " 

"Don't  ask  idle  questions  Andre!"  replied  Mr.  Hunt; 
hitch  my  horse  to  that  sapling  over  yonder.  Run  up  one  of 
you  boys  and  tell  Mr.  Prospere  to  put  out  the  furnace  fire. 
"Come  darling, "  continued  he,  gathering  Lucile  in  his  arms, 
"let  us  get  out  of  the  wind." 

The  negroes  ran  under  the  ground  floor  of  the  mill  and 
their  master  carried  Lucile  up  to  the  engine-room. 

The  blow,  which  for  a  moment,  had  threatened  to  demol- 
ish the  building,  had  subsided  to  so  portentous  a  calm,  that 
nature  seemed  to  have  suspended  animation,  or  like  a  living 
thing,  had  fallen  into  a  trance.  The  frightful  stillness  became 
so  oppressive  to  those  who  waited  that  it  was  a  relief  to  hear 
the  thunder  growling  at  a  distance  and  to  see  the  trees  shiv- 
ering in  the  gathering  gloom.  At  intervals,  the  lightning 
licked  with  fiery  tongue,  the  dusky  vault  of  heaven,  or  broke 
the  brooding  silence  with  fierce  explosions. 


42  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

This  was  the  prelude  to  the  impending  storm  which  sud- 
denly swept  over  the  place  like  a  West  Indian  hurricane. 

The  panic-stricken  negroes  scrambled  up  the  steps  and  ran 
to  their  master,  huddling  around  him  like  so  many  sheep. 

'  Marster, "  cried  one  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "I's  feared  de-da 
judgment  day's  'bout  bustin'  on  us." 

"I  reckon  not  Andre;  the  Bibie  says  that  the  world  is  lo 
be  destroyed  by  fire.     Don't  you  hear  how  it's  ruining?  " 

''Tank  God!"  responded  Andre  witli  fervency. 

A  lurid  flame  flashed  through  the  building,  exposing  with 
fearful  distmctness  the  ghostly  features  of  its  inmates.  It  was 
followed  by  a  crash  so  terrific  and  deafening,  Mr.  Hunt  be- 
lieved that  the  mill  had  been  struck;  he  sprang  to  his  feet  with 

Luciie  in  his  arms. 

Simultaneously  with  the  explosion,  the  negroes  fell  upon 

their  knees,  groaning  and  enjaculating: 

"Lawd  Jesus,  sabe  us!  "  cried  one. 

"Little  mo'  time,  Lawd  ter  sabe  my  po'  soul,"  came  from 
another,  in  a  heart-rending  tone. 

"I  dun  grievus  'gmst  yo',  Lawd;  ef  yo'  leave  me  off  dis 
once,  yo'  aint  gwine  ter  know  me  fur  de  same  nigger,   Lawd.' 

Such  were  the  prayers  and  confessions  which  fell  involun- 
tarily from  the  lips  of  the  would-be  penitents;  they  mingled 
with  the  roar  of  the  elements  and  created  a  pandemonium  din 
which  filled  Luciie  with  consternation. 

"0  papa!  "  she  cried  throwing  her  arms  around  her 
father's  neck.  "God  won't  let  the  lightning  kill  them;  I've 
asked  him  not  to — tell  them  that  papa — tell  them  quick!  "  she 
reiterated,  as  once  again,  the  promiscuous  groans  and  praj-^ers 
predominated  over  the  noise  outside. 

Mr.  Hunt's  clieek  flushed  witii  vexation;  he  unwound  the 
child's  arms  from  around  his  neck  and  turned  to  the  cowering 
slaves. 


IN    CHALPA    SWAMP.  43 

"See  here,"  he  said,  in  a  commanding  voice,  "I  want  you 
to  stop  this  nonsense;  you  are  frightening  your  little  mistress 
by  your  cowardly  behavior.  Can't  you  pray  without  making 
such  a  racket?  " 

'  'But  marster, "  responded  one  of  the  sinners  lifting  his  eyes 
with  pitiful  humility,  "we'se  a  parcel  of  ripo bates  an'  de  Lawd 
ain't  gwine  to  notice  'cept  we  makes  all  dis  yere  fuss!" 

The  timely  reprimand  produced  its  desired  effect;  the 
avowed  reprobates  subdued  the  turbulence  of  their  souls  and 
awaited  in  silent  resignation  the  final  proceedings  of  the 
tempest. 

After  awhile,  the  wind  began  to  subside,  but  the  rain 
still  fell  in  torrents.  Mr.  Hunt  was  now  seriously  disturbed 
on  Lucile's  account;  he  was  aware  of  the  obstacles  which  would 
prevent  them  from  returning  home  that  night  even  were  the 
rain  to  cease.  It  was  with  misgiving  he  broached  the  subject 
to  the  child. 

"I  am  afraid  pet,"  he  began,  with  marked  hesitation,  "I'm 
afraid — we  will  have  to  stay  here  to-night.  We  could  hardl}' 
pass  through  those  dark  woods  after  such  a  storm.  We  could 
never  find  our  way  through  the  tangled  bushes;  we  may  stumble 
over  fallen  trees  or  meet  with  some  other  accident.  Would 
you  not  stay  here  with  me  until  morning?" 

''I  shouldn't  mind  staying  with  you,  papa,"  she  answered, 
looking  up  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "but  we  can't  leave  poor 
mamma  all  by  herself,  you  know." 

"You  little  goose!  mamma  is  better  off  than  we  are;  won't 
she  have  a  nice,  dry  bed  to  sleep  on  and  Zulma  to  keep  her 
company.  You  had  better  think  of  ourselves,  who  will  have 
to  rough  it  like  real  soldiers!  " 

"And  will  it  be  camping  out  in  Chalj^a?  "  she  asked  with 
childish  interest. 


44  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    TH«    OLD    SOUTH. 

"A  genuine  campaign  my  Love;  that  will  be  something 

to  boast  of  at  home." 

And  Lucile  vigorously  nodded  in  approval. 

Night  descended  upon  the  sodden  waste  of  leaves  and 
moss  beaten  down  by  the  rain.  A  soughing  wind  continued  to 
harass  the  dripping  trees  and  saplings,  which  bent  over  and 
staggered  like  a  set  of  ragged  beggars  plodding  through  the 
misty  darkness.  All  sorts  of  strange  noises  now  began  to 
assert  themselves.  Winged  visitants  flitted  hack  ;ind  forth 
with  unpleasant  and  persistent  familiarity.  Tlie  incessant 
chirping  of  the  insect  tribes,  the  doeful  shrieks  of  mght  birds 
combined  with  the  stentorian  bellowing  of  the  bullfrog,  pro- 
duced a  concatenation  of  sounds  which  greatly  enhanced  tlie 
dreaiiness  of  the  dismal  place. 

The  hosts  now  manifested  hospitality  by  hustling  around 
and  kindling  a  fire.  As  it  was  made  of  dry  cypress  twigs,  the 
flames  instantly  leaped  into  a  mass  of  radiant  tongues,  accom- 
panied by  a  cheerful  crackle  and  a  discharge  of  sparks  which 
greatly  contributed  to  dissipate  the  shadows  of  nightfall. 

"What  have  you  for  supper,  Dick?  "  asked  the  master, 
as  the  head  cook  busied  himself  among  the  pots  and  tin  pans. 

"Jis  w'atyougin  us  marsteran'  a  leetle  over,"  he  ventured 
to  say  with  a  knowing  smile  and  glancing  around  at  his  mas- 
ter with  an  eye  half  cocked,  as  one  laboring  under  a  misgiving. 

"And  what  may  that  be,  I  wonder?  " 

The  negro  uncovered  an  oven  which  sat  upon  a  shelf  and 
with    an  iron  fork  lifted   from  it  a   rabbit   baked  t©  a  russet 

brown. 

"Is  that  all,  Dick?  " 

"If  dat  ain't  nuflf  fur  yo'  an'  little  mistis, "  he  replied, 
dropping  the  tempting  rodent  back  into  the  pot  and  contem- 
plating its  contents  with  a  mischievous  twinkle — "ef  'tain't, 
day's  de  hind  part  of  a  shoat  layin'  'side  ov  it. " 


IN   CHALPA    SWAMP.  45 

"You  incorrigible  scamp!  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Hunt  starting 
up  from  his  comfortable  position  on  the  tool  chest.  "Did  I 
not  forbid  you  to  kill  anything  but  game  and  you  know  I  meant 
wild  animals." 

"Dat's  'zactly  wot  we  dun,  mars;  dis  yere  berry  shoat 
was  rarin'  wile  w'en  Mr.    Prospere  shoot  'im. " 

"Now,  let  this  be  the  last  time  I  hear  of  your  shooting 
hogs  around  here.  Haven't  you  enough  to  eat  without  killing 
what  don't  belong  to  you.  ?  " 

"We  got  plenty  bakin'  'tatoesand  cornmeal,  marster." 

"And  as  much  game  as  you  want." 

"Dat's  so;  an'  Mr.  Prospere,  he  got  eggs  an'  coffee — an' 
— an'  " — stammered  he  with  a  glance  in  the  direction  where 
the  engmeer  sat  smoking  his  clay  pipe,  ''an'  sum'n  else  in  dat 
chess  of  his — he  got  a  jug!  " 

"That's  none  ot  your  business.  Dick, "  replied  Mr.  Hunt, 
turning  his  head  to  hide  his  amusement  at  the  slave's  cunning 
insinuations. 

Her  long  ride  and  the  novelty  of  eating  a  meal  from  a  tin 
plate  greatly  stimulated  Lucile's  apppetite.  The  baked  rabbit, 
tried  bacon  and  corn  cakes  proved  the  most  palatable  repast 
she  had  ever  tasted.  The  negroes,  her  humble  hosts,  waited 
upon  her  with  loving  assiduity,  continually  replenishing  her 
plate  with  the  rarest  tit-bits  found  in  their  menu  After  this 
much  relished  supper  was  over,  the  master  and  his  slaves  sat 
out  on  the  platform,  the  former  to  get  a  whiff  of  air  and  the 
latter  to  smoke  and  discuss  the  late  storm. 

Lucile  and  Lupus,  after  a  critical  survey  of  the  domestic 
arrangements  at  the  mill,  concluded  to  join  the  group  outside. 

'  'Ain't  you  awfully  afraid  and  lonesome  here  at  night?  " 
she  asked,  looking  at  the  negroes  with  sympathetic  interest. 


46  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"Dey's  times  we  is,  little  mistis, "  answered  one  of  the 
number,  "but  yo' see  'taint  always  dark  and  slushy  like  dis 
ev'y  night.  AV'en  de  moon  shine,  we  got  good  time  huntin' 
coon  an'  possum,  or  we  sits  out  here  an'  sings." 

"Why  don't  you  sing  when  it's  dark?  "  asked  the  child 
with  awakened  curiosity. 

"Lor,  we  dun  no  honey,  can't  tell  w'at  sort  of  sperits  bees 
prowlin'  round  dese  yere  swamps." 

"But  papa  IS  here  to-night;  you  won't  be  afraid  to  sing, 
will  you?  '■ 

"I  reckon  not;  does  you  want  to  hear  us  bad?  " 

"Yes,  I  do,  and  Lupus  wants  it  too,"  replied  Lucile  seat- 
ing herself  on  one  of  the  logs. 

The  complacent  darkies  scrutinized  their  puny  audience 
with  broad  grins  and  began  tuning  their  souls  to  the  right 
pitch  by  clapping  together  their  brawny  hands. 

"Less  sing  Poor  ole  Ned,"  said  one. 

"No,  Jim  Crack  Corn  de  be',"  suggested  another. 

"Dis  yere  ritrlit  time  fur  ter  Coon  Hunt,"  put  in  a  third, 
who  acted  as  the  leader  of  the  Nubian  orchestra.  "Me  and  Jim 
gwine  to  do  de  singing  an'  you  all  boys  muss  jine  in  de  choris. 
Les  start,  Jim!  " 

'•Oh  come  darkiea  out  in  de  moolight. 

CHORUS. 

Ho!   heigh  ho!  heigh  ho! 
Possum  an'  de  coons'  all  out  to-night. 

Ho!  heigh  ho!  heigh  hoi 
Dey's  prancin'  'ronn'  de  ole  siramon  tree. 

Sho,  dat's  so,  less  go! 
An'  callin'  all  de}'  frens  fur  ter  see. 

Ho!  less  go!  less  go! 
Ole  possum  can't  fool  dis  .yere  nigger. 

Ho!  less  go;  less  go! 
He'll  kick  twixt  de  dog  an'  de  trigger. 

Ho!  heigh  ho!  heigh  ho! 


IN    CHALPA    SWAMP.  47 

,    Dey  a  feas'  comin'  on  putty  sooa. 
Boj's,  less  go!  less  go  I 
Less  us  skip  fur  ter  fetch  datter  coon. 

Boys,  less  go  I  less  go! 
We  kin  meet  wid  de  gals  dat  we  knows. 

Shol  dat's  so!  dat's  so! 
Dey  will  come  on  de  wing  of  de  crows. 
Boys,  less  go!  less  go!  " 

"When  the  song  was  ended  the  last  words  of  the  chorus  re- 
echoed against  the  neighboring  wall  of  cypress  trees,  in  weird, 
unearthly  sounds.  Although  their  song  was  of  the  rousing  sort, 
there  was  something  extremely  pathetic  in  this  earnest  out- 
pouring of  their  music-loving  nature. 

The  expression  of  their  black  faces  was  not  visible  in  the 
starlight,  but  there  was  in  there  bosoms  an  undercurrent  of 
pleasurable  excitement  whicLi  clearly  revealed  itself  in  their 
singing. 

"How  does  you  like  dish  vere  singing,  little  mistis?" 
asked  Jonas  with  conscious  p'"ide. 

The  whole  performance  had  somewhat  stupified  Lucile; 
she  had  never  before  listened  to  such  boisterous  singing; 
nevertheless,  she  was  vastly  entertained. 

"That  was  a  fine  song,  Jonas,  I  want  you  all  to  sing 
another  one  just  like  it.' 

But  the  conductor  here  lifted  his  finger  in  a  listening  atti- 
tude. 

"Heah  dat?  old  Tige  dun  fall  on  de  trac  of  sum  sort  of 
varmint!  " 

Lupus  too,  heard  the  baying;  he  pricked  his  ears,  whined 
and  shook  his  shaggy  frame  with  impatience, 

"AV'at  fur   yo'   cuttin'  all    dem   siiines,    Lupis? "    asked 
Jonas;   "you  yeard  dem   yedder  dargs   kavotin'  in  dem  woods 
an'  j'ou   bees  wan  tin'   to  jine   'em,  eh?     But  you's  too   big  a 
CO  wid  to  do  it;  aint  dat  so?  " 


48  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Lupus  seemed  to  comprehend  that  his  valor  was  impugned 
and  he  instantly  refuted  the  charge  by  rushing  to  the  edge  of 
tne  platform  and  uttering  a  growl  of  indignation. 

"Dat's  all  you  kin  do!  "  cried  Jonas  tauntingly.  "Why 
don't  you  jump  down  an'  jine  de  cirkis?  " 

Quivering  with  excitement,  the  dog  bounded  back  to 
where  his  mistress  sat;  he  poised  on  his  haunches  and  gazed 
in  her  face  with  a  pleading,  questioning  look. 

"Lupus  IS  not  at  all  afraid  to  go,  Jonas,  he  things  I  want 
him  to  stay  with  me  and — I — 'm — not  a  bit  afraid  to  tell  him 
to  go  either,"  she  added  with  a  little  tremor  in  her  voice. 

"Dem  gi'  'im  a  chance,  little  mistis,  an'  let  'im  rip,"  re- 
plied the  darky  in  a  provoking  manner. 

Lucile  made  a  noble  effort  to  stifle  her  fears  and  mistrust, 
but  she  was  determined  to  give  the  dog  an  opportunity  to  prove 
his  prowess. 

"Go  Lupus,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  steps,  but  to  her 
dismay  Lupus  began  capering  around  instead  of  availing  him- 
self of  the  permission  accorded  him. 

At  this  moment  the  baying  of  a  half  a  dozen  dogs  fell 
clamorously  upon  his  ear. 

"Go  and  catch  the  coon,  Lupus,"  his  mistress  cried,  in  a 
pleading  voice. 

The  creature  now  seemed  to  appreciate  the  motive  which 
prompted  his  dismissal  with  such  unusual  do(tision.  He 
bounded  to  the  edge  of  the  platform,  sniffed  and  hung  his 
head  down  as  if  calculating  the  distance  for  a  leap. 

"He's  feared  to  crack  his  neck-bone!"  observed  Jonas, 
with  a  wicket  grin;   "get  'im  to  take  de  step,  little  mistis." 

As  soon  as  he  was  shown  the  safe  exit.  Lupus  scampered 
down  and  joined  without  delay  the  chorus  outsidej 


IN    CHALPA    SWAMP.  49 

'  'Now  boys, "  said  Andre,  rising  and  knocking  the  ashes  out 
of  his  pipe.      "Less  go  an'  inves'  dis  yere  buznus." 

"We  gwine  to  swamp  sho',  "  suggested  Jonas. 

"(jrit  out  man,  can't  we  swim?     Come  on!  " 

On  their  return,  the  negroes  informed  their  master  that 
the  dog  had  alread}'  "treed  de  coon;"  it  was  too  dark  to  see  it, 
but  they  had  fastened  Tige  and  Growler  to  the  tree  to  keep  the 
quarry  "company."  Lupus,  to  Lucile's  chagrin,  had  volun- 
teered to  keep  guard  with  the  rest. 

"He's  de  bess  coon  dawg  I  ebber  laid  eyes  on,"  remarked 
Jonas,  now  turned  eulogist,  "you  ort  ter  see  'im,  little  mistis; 
he's  whoopin'  mad,  a  tearin'  roun'  dat  tree,  skinnin'  ebery  bit 
of  de  bark  off  tryin'  ter  git  at  dat  varmint." 

"Nebber  seed  such  eagersom  dawgs!  "  added  Dick,  his 
eyes  batting  with  animation,  "dey  doan'  take  time  to  breeve, 
dey  so  full  of  satisfaction!  " 

The  inmates  of  the  mill  now  retired;  each  went  to  his  in- 
dividual blanket.  With  Mr.  Prospere's  overcoat,  Lucile  made 
herself  a  comfortable  couch  upon  which  she  slept  sweetl}^  and 
soundly  until  daybreak.  She  was  then  awakened  b}'  the  loud 
talkmg  and  commotion  outside  of  the  building.  She  was  at 
first  bewildered  by  her  strange  and  unfamiliar  surroundings. 
The  grey  dawn  lighted  up  the  wide  opening  at  the  front;  she 
ran  to  the  spot  in  hope  of  seeing  her  father.  She  caught  sight 
of  him  standing  a  few  yards  off  surrounded  by  the  mill  hands, 
who  appeared  to  be  in  a  high  state  of  excitement,  Jonas  was 
in  the  crowd  and  he  was  struggling  with  all  his  might  to  escape 
from  the  grip  of  one  of  his  companions. 

"Lawd  a  mussy!"  he  cried,  in  a  terror  stricken  voice, 
"let  me  run!  " 

"You  dun  run  fur  'nough  fur  de  bref  dat's  lef  you," 
answered  his  captor  tightening  his  grasp.  "Now  tell  me  w'at 
dat  yea  ruuniu'  frum?  " 


50  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"Let  me  loose  fuss,"  pleaded  Jonas,  with  eyes  protruding 
with  terror. 

"Ain't  gwine  to  truss  3^ou,  man.  Say,  did  you  see  dead 
people  back  dare?  " 

"0  Lawd,  no;  'twas  up  in  de  tree!  " 

"You  waut'er  tell  me  you  raisin'  all  dish  yere  rackit  'bout 
dat  coon  in  de  tree?  " 

"Lawd,  yes;  but — it — it  wa'nt  a  coon,"  he  corrected  him- 
self,  "it  war  a  critter  big  as  er — er  tiger." 

"Lis'en  ter  dat  fool,  will  yer!  He  nebber  laid  eyes  on  no 
tiger  'cept  it  bees  ole  Tige,"  said  Andre  with  a  sneer. 

"He  must  have  seen  a  wildcat,"  said  Mr.  Hunt.  "Come 
on,  boys,  and  let  us  find  out.  Andre,  run  up  and  get  the  rifle 
and  ask  Mr.  Prosper  to  stay  with  Lucile  till  our  retern." 

'You  kin  run  now,  you  cbickiu'- hearted  nigger  you!"  ex- 
claimed Andre,  giving  Jonas  a  parting  shake.  "Run  under  de 
beb  an'  stay  dare  till  we  gits  through  settlin'  dish  yere  hash  of 
yourn." 

But  Jonas  had  twofold  reason  for  declining  to  make  use 
of  his  liberty  "to  run." 

In  the  first  place,  his  master's  presence  promised  his  per- 
sonal safety;  in  the  second,  his  ire  had  been  provoked  and  he 
was  aroused  to  a  dogged  resolution  to  follow  his  companions 
as  far  as  was  consistent  with  his  reviving  courage. 

The  tree  around  which  tiie  dogs  had  been  cutting  up  such 
"high  jinks"  as  the  darkies  expressed  it,  was  a  huge  hickory 
%o  thickly  draped  witli  moss  th:i,t  it  w:i,s  with  diflieulty  the  eye 
penetrated  the  deep  recesses  ot  its  interior  branches.  Mr. 
Hunt  ahd  his  part}'^  halted  at  some  distance  from  it  to  examine 
the  rifle  and  to  put  themselves  in  a  position  of  defense  in  case 
of  an  emergency.  Lie  judged  from  the  frantic  behavior  of  the 
dogs,  that  there  was  serious  cause  for  their  extraordinary 
demonstrations. 


IN    CHALPA    SWAMP.  51 

"My  Lawd!"  ejaculated  Aadre,  "jis  lis'ea  to  dat  tremea- 
yous  fuss.  'Cordiu'  ter  de  trandum  dey's  raisin'  dey  must  'ave 
treed  a  lellephant.  I  say,  contined  he,  tip-toeing  towards  the 
spot  and  peeping  cautiously  up  where  the  thick,  grey  moss 
hung  in  heavy  bunches.  "I  say,  an'  it's  my  'pinion  dat  it  's 
er — er — By  jingo!  "  he  exclaimed  with  a  look  of  horror.  "Let 
me  git  out  er  yere,  folks!  "  Springing  back  to  a  safe  distance, 
he  stood  for  a  few  seconds  puffing  like  an  ox  and  speechless 
with  fear  and  surprise.  "Come  back  yere,  marstar!  dere's 
sum'in'  settin'  up  dare  w — wursser  den — den  a  wil'cat. " 

But  Mr.  Hunt  approached  the  tree,  peermg  with  anxious 
eye  in  the  direction  indicated  by  Andre. 

Crouched  on  one  of  the  horizontal  limbs,  he  saw  the 
shadowy  form  of  an  immense  panther  slashing  his  tail  back 
and  forth  with  suppressed  fury.  It  was  evident  that  the  crea- 
ture's powers  of  endurance  were  exhausted  and  that  he  was  on 
the  point  of  terminating  his  long  seige  b}'  making  a  spring 
upon  his  tormenters.  Mr.  Hunt  realized  the  danger  of  his 
situation ;  he  thought  of  Lucile ,  his  lips  compressed  and  the 
blood  retreated  to  his  heart.  There  was  not  a  moment's  time 
to  lose.  He  raised  his  rifle  with  utmost  precaution,  took  aim 
and  fired.  The  report  was  followed  by  a  furious  howl  and  a 
terrific  crash  among  the  branches.  The  beast  had  been  shot 
through  the  loins  and  fell  from  its  place  of  refuge,  with  a 
dead,  heavy  thud. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  the  ground,  the  dogs,  with  deafen- 
ing outcries,  sprang  upon  him  with  teeth  and  paw  and  the 
negroes  rushed  to  the  spot  with  dreadful  shrieks. 

"Gi'  it  to  him,  Tige!" 

"Whoopee!  dat's  right!     Scratch  his  eyes  out,  Lupis!" 

"Ain't  dis  fun,  dough!" 


52  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"Dem  dawus  shakin'  de  life  outer  'im,"  cried  Dick,  hold- 
ing for  a  second  bis  club  suspended  in  air;  "dey  doan  gee  no 
body  er  chance  fur  er  chunk  at  dat  animal." 

"We  was  all  migiity  jubious  'bout  gettin'  'im,"  exclaimed 
Jonas  exultantly,  "l.)Ut  we's  pounin'on  'im  now,  aint  we  boys?" 

"An'  you's  a  fine  one  to  brag,  you  tarnacious  cowid,  you! 
answered  Dick  with  flashing  eyes.  "You  feels  putty  safe  now 
chunl<ia'  at  dish  yere  dead  critter,  doz  you?  " 

"Ishodoz,"  replied  Jonas  with  the  air  of  a  hero.  "I 
was  de  deaf  of  'im." 

The  turmoil  and  excitement  was  overwhelming.  Mr. 
Hunt,  unable  to  control  the  combatants  or  end  the  animal's 
suffering,  stood  silently  watching  tlie  unequal  conflict. 

The  noise  of  this  trigi)tful  turbulence  reached  Lucile;  her 
dismay  and  anxiety  concerning  her  father's  safety  were  such 
that  her  guardian  was  forced  to  conduct  her  to  the  scene  of 
carnage,  where  she  witnessed  with  tears  of  anguish  and  cries 
of  terror,  the  death  struggles  of  the  mighty  panther  of  Uhalpu 
Swamp. 


A    NARROW    ESCAPE.  53 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  NARROW  ESCAPE. 

A  N  INTERESTING  event  in  the  life  of  our  pioneers,  was  a 
■^  visit  to  the  old  folks  at  Come  a  Chevreuil.  The  rides 
out  to  False  River  were  truely  delightful,  especially  in  early 
fall,  when  the  air  was  as  fragrant  and  exhilerating  as  that  of 
a  mountain  region.  The  road-sides  were  lined  with  wild  flow- 
ers. The  pale,  feathery  asters  filled  the  woods  with  sweet 
odors,  and  the  sturdy  vagabonds  in  tyrian  purple,  sported 
among  the  thistle  and  aromatic  thyme.  The  sweet  songs  of 
familiar  birds,  mingled  with  the  shrill  cries  of  the  jay  and  the 
tinkling  of  cow-bells  in  the  distance,  suggested  running  waters, 
cool  retreats  and  other  woodland  mysteries. 

Our  travellers  never  accustomed  themselves  to  the  sudden 
change  of  scenery,  from  murky  bayous  and  gloomy  woods,  to 
the  radiant  and  picturesque  landscape  which  greeted  their  eyes 
on  reaching  the  banks  of  False  River. 

Lucile  went  into  raptures  over  the  enchanting  coup-d'oeul, 
but  her  mother  gazed  upon  it  with  subdued  pleasure.  Here 
was  the  panorama  of  the  blue  river  quivering  in  the  sunlight,  of 
the  island  dotted  with  little  brown  houses,  and  more  beautiful 
still,  were  the  circling  shores,  dissolving  in  the  etherial  atmos- 
phere. There  was  a  pastoral  charm  in  the  flocks  of  sheep 
strolling  on  the  banks,  and  in  the  cows  contentedly  feasting  on 
the  floating  algae. 

Lucile  greatly  enjoyed  visits  to  her  grandparents,  for 
she  dearly  loved  the  rambling  old  house,  its  quaint  furniture 
and  the  smoky,  allegorical  pictures  which  hung  on  the  walls; 
she  loved  to  roam  over  the  big   yard,  where  the  cattle  and 


54  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

sheep  browsed  luxuriously  on  the  mossy  turf,  and  to  play  un- 
der the  liveoaks  which,  once  upon  a  time,  had  sheltered  from 
the  noonday  sun,  the  Lafitte  brothers.  She  doated  on  her 
grandparents,  especially  on  her  grandpere,  who  was  perfectly 
devoted  to  her.  She  would  sit  for  hours  upon  his  knee,  relat- 
ing to  him  some  of  the  stirring  events  she  had  read  in  history, 
or  the  wonderful  accounts  travellers  gave  of  their  experiences 
in  foreign  lands.  M.  Lafitte  silently  listened,  and  absorbed 
with  child-like  interest,  whatever  Lucile,  with  her  superior 
knowledge,  was  pleased  to  impart  to  him.  When  weary  of  her 
task,  she  would  lay  her  head  against  his  broad  shoulder,  and 
twirling  his  silver  watch  chain  about  her  slender  fingers,  de- 
mand a  story  in  recurn. 

'  'No,  no  grandpere, "  she  often  protested,  with  a  determ- 
ined shake  of  her  curls,  "You've  already  told  me  about  Com- 
pere Renard  and  Bonqui,  I  want  to  hear  something  about 
giants  and  fairies." 

Grandpere  a  knowledge  of  these  supernatural  beings  was 
sadly  deficient  and  he  was  often  compelled  to  have  recourse  to 
his  own  inventive  powers  which,  unfortunately,  were  so  inad- 
equate, that  he  invariably  disgraced  himself  in  the  eyes  of  his 
disappointed  grandchild. 

Lucille  was  very  fond  of  wandering  about  the  fields  and 
roadside  in  search  of  wild  flowers.  One  morning  in  Autumn, 
whilst  strolling  along  the  banks  of  the  baj'ou,  bent  on  her  favor- 
ite persuit,  she  espied,  to  her  infinite  delight,  her  grandfather's 
antiquated  cabriolet  coming  up  the  road.  Old  Sorrel  harnessed 
to  it,  was  jogging  along  in  his  usual  contemplative  gait.  She 
waved  with  delirious  joy  the  bunch  of  verbenas  she  had  just 
gathered,  and  hastened  to  shorten  the  distance  between  the  be- 
loved visitors  and  herself.  Tiie  reader  is  left  to  imagine  the 
meeting.     M.  Lafitte  never  came  so  near  being  strangled,  and 


A    NARROW    ESCAPE.  55 

his  venerable   wife's   lace   kerchief  was   so  rumpled,  she  was 
ashamed  to  present  herself,  after  the  ordeal. 

As  soon  as  the  visitors  were  seated  and  had  fallen  into 
quiet  conversation,  Lucile,  as  was  her  wont,  ran  to  the  kitchen 
for  a  live  coal  for  grandpere  to  light  his  pipe  with;  he  had 
no  use  for  matches  and  always  carried  his  flint-Jjox,  in  case  of 
an  emergency. 

^'■Grandpere  was  dying  to  see  his  sauvagesse^"  said  the 
old  man,  placing  his  grandchild  on  his  knee  and  passmg  his 
fingers  caressingly  through  her  shining  curls. 

"Were  you,  old  precious?  Then  I  wish  you'd  feel  like 
that  all  the  time;  we  would  have  you  here  every  day." 

Granrlpere  threw  back  his  head  and  puffed  out  great  vol- 
umes of  smoke. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  make  me  cry,  grandpiref  asked  Lu- 
cile, with  a  touching  smile. 

"Yes,  ma  chere,  this  old  peri'qve  will  surely  draw  the 
tears  from  your  eyes.  Go  over  there  and  tease  your  grand- 
mere  'til  I  get  through  smoking." 

"No,  I  sha'n't;  I'll  go  to  the  bayou  and  catch  some  nice 
fish  for  dinner — sacalaifs,  grandpere." 

"What  a  fine  idea,  petite,  you  make  my  mouth  water. 
Take  your  line  and  go." 

Lucile  bounded  out  of  the  room  and  ran  to  the  poultry- 
yard,  where  Zulma  was  counting  a  brood  of  chickens.  "Zul- 
ma, "  she  cried,  "I'm  going  to  catch  a  mess  of  fish  for  grand- 
pere s  dinner.      I  want  you  to  go  with  me." 

"Fifteen,  sixteen,  seventeen.  Dere  now, "  said  Zulma, 
dropping  into  a  soap-box  the  last  one  of  the  downy  chicks. 
"I's  been  countin'  em  tree  time  over  and  ev'y  time  dey's  one 
mo'  of  'em." 


56  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

<*If  you  keep  on  counting, "  said  Lucile,  laughing,  "you 
need  not  to  set  any  more  hens,  Zulma. " 

"I'd  ruther  carry  on  dis  here  bizness  de  reg'lar  way,  Miss 
Lucile;  I  doan'  want  no  conger  chicken,  me." 

The  bayou  teemed  with  the  finest  fishes,  at  all  seasons 
of  the  year,  and  in  less  than  an  hour's  time,  one  could  catch  a 
mess  of  the  finest  perch  and  trout.  Lucile  and  Zulma  pro- 
cured their  bait  and  tackle  and  started  oflf  towards  a  favorite 
haunt  of  theirs — a  group  of  willows,  in  the  midst  of  which  lay 
the  prostrate  trunk  of  a  large  gum  tree. 

It  had  fallen  partly  across  the  water  and  its  gaunt  limbs, 
extending  in  every  direction,  reminded  Lucile  of  a  Briarens 
struggling  to  raise  himself  up  from  the  earth. 

Regardless  of  the  danger,  she  ran  along  ihe  full  length  of 
the  trunk,  which  projected  a  considerable  distance  across  the 
water.  Here  she  settled  herself  upon  a  forked  limb  and 
planted  her  booted  feet  for  support  against  a  section  of  half 
decayed  bark.  Within  a  convenient  distance  between  them. 
Zulma  had  suspended  to  a  projecting  limb,  her  receptacle  for 
future  captives,  this  was  a  coffee  bag,  which  she  partly 
emersed  to  keep  the  fish  alive. 

"Da'll  all  feel  so  comtor'able  in  dere,  little  Missis,  da'll 
never  dream  da  gwine  into  de  tryin'  pan. " 

On  the  opposite  shore  was  a  building  in  course  of  con- 
struction; it  was  a  cabin,  destined  for  a  new  settler.  The 
strokes  of  the  hammer  sounded  loud  and  clear,  and  the  rever- 
ating  echoes  filled  the  woods  with  incessant  clamor. 

"If  that  man  keeps  on  hammering,  he'll  frighten  away  all 
the  fish  in  the  bayou,  won't  he?  "  asked  Lucile. 

"I  'clare  he  will.  I  got  a  great  notion  to  holler  at  him, 
and  ax  him  to  jump  down  dat  roof  till  we  cotch  a  mess." 


A    NARROW     ESCAPE.  57 

'■Doa't  do  it,  let  them  finish  their  house,  maybe  they're 
in  a  hurr}-.'" 

"No  bigger  hurr}'  dan  we  all;  he  can  help  dat  todder  one 
to  toat  de  shingles  'till  we's  ready  to  go." 

••You  had  better  leave  them  alone,  Zuluia. '" 

Lucile  had  thrown  off  her  wide-brimmed  hat;  the  breeze, 
which  ruffled  the  surface  of  the  dark  green  water,  lifted  from 
lier  brow  and  cheeks  the  pretty  curls,  escaped  from  confine- 
ment. She  made  a  pretty  picture,  perched  on  her  rustic  seat, 
her  bright  e^"es  eagerly  watching  the  gaudy  floats. 

"Put  on  yo'  hat,  Miss  Lucile;  dey's  a  streak  of  shine  plum 
on  yo'  face:  fuss  thing  you'll  know,  all  de  turkev  eggs'll  be 
out." 

"What  sort  of  eggs  are  those,"'  asked  Lucile. 

"Dem's  black  specks  on  white  folk's  faces." 

"You  mean  freckles?  O,  Zulma,  T  have  a  bite!'"  Lucile 
jerked  from  the  water  a  vicious  looking  fish. 

"Swing  him  'roun'  little  mistis;  it's  nuffln'  but  nole  cat!'" 
Zuhiia  ([uickly  disengaged  the  hook  from  the  throat  of  the 
despised  prey  and  pitched  it  back  into  the  water.  •  'Dere 
now:  dat's  de  way  we  serves  'em,  ware  I  cum  frnm."  The 
last  expression  was  one  she  had  often  thrown  in  parenthesis, 
when  recalling  events  in  her  former  sphere  of  life. 

Lucile's  curiosity  to  ascertain  the  situation  of  that  boasted 
locality  was  aroused,  and  she  asked:  "Where  did  you  come 
from  anyway?" 

"Oh,  fur  frum  dis  yere  place;  clost  to  a  big  river." 

"I  know;  from  False  River,  where,  grandpere  and  grand, 
mere  live. " 

"Dat  I  didn't;  I  cum  frum.  fudder'n  dat.  I  cum  frum  a 
place  clost  to  Waterloo.      Ever  bin  dar,  little  mistis?" 

"No,  I  neverj  but  papa  has." 


58 


ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


'•I  rekin  so.  I  kin  tell  you,  it's  de  fust  place  iu  de  Ian' 
fursuckis'.      Yo'  pa  ever  tuck  you  to  a  suckis?" 

"No,  but  he  promised  to  take  me  to  the  convent,  and 
that's  as  good  as  a  circus,  T  know." 

"Is  niver  bin  ter  de  convint,  but  I'se  bin  ter  de  suckis, 
an'  T  knows  dat  can't  be  beat.  I  seed  dere,  a  gal  litttlier  den 
you,  tearin'  roun'  on  top  of  six  hawses.'' 

"0  Zulma!  what  a  story!" 

"Befo' de  Lawd,  'taint.  She  did  go  Jlyin  roun' a  holin' 
de  reins  a  bowin'  an'  seudin"  olf  kisses.  But  I  seed  more'n  dat 
in  dem  suckisses.  ' 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  about  it.     Don't  talk." 

Naturally,  Lucile  was  nettled  at  Zulma's  worldly  knowledge 

and  experience,  and   she  was  fearful  of  being  questioned  and 

compelled  to  expose  her  own  ignorance. 

Tbe  fish  bad  begun  to  bite,  and  the   anglers  were  jerking 

out  of  their  native  element  quite  a  supply  of  the  reddish-brown 

beauties. 

"You  ever  seed  a  steamboat,  little  raistis?"  asked  Zulma, 
breaking  the  silence  and  casting  a  side  glance  at  Lucile.     . 

Lucile  restled  with  her  conscieuce  for  a  second  or  so, 
trying  to  find  an  excuse  to  save  herself  fi'om  further  humila- 
tion  as  well  as  prevarication. 

"Of  course  I  have,''  she  ventured  to  reply. 
"Ware  dat  yon  seed  dat  steamboat,  Miss  Lucile?'" 
There  was   no  retreat;  she   had   tried  to  mislead  Zulma^ 

but  she  had  not  the  lieart  to  tell  a  downright  falsehood;  truth 

with  her  was  like  second  nature. 

"Why,  I  saw  it  in  a  book.  Zulma,"  Lucile  answered  in  a 
dfesperate  sort  of  way. 


A     NARROW    ESCAPE.  ')U 

"Ob,  you  git  out  I  lifle  mistis!  Dem  steamboats  you  see 
in  de  book  eau't  hole  a  candle  to  dem  real  Jivr  'ems,  stnittin' 
'long  in  de  Mississip]»i  river." 

"I'm  going  on  a  boat,  when  papa  takes  me  to  the  con- 
vent,"' said  Lucile  with  a  triumphant  smile. 

•'You  is?     Better  look  out!  dey  pooty  tricky!' 
"How  are  they  tricky,  I  should  like  to  know?" 
"How?"    echoed  Zulmii  with  a  warning  stare.      -'P^f  you 
had  seed  all  the  hex-plosions  I  seed,  you  wouldn't  ax  dat  ques- 
tin,  litle  mistis." 

"Tell  me  about  these  hex-plosions, "  asked  Lucile,  igno- 
rantly  repeating  Zulmas  pronunciation  of  the  word.  "What 
are  they?" 

"Dey's  de  bustin's  chile,  de  mos"  awful  sight  under  de 
sun.  Look!  look!  over  yunder  at  dat  coppy-head  streakin' 
troo  de  water.      Aiut  it  glidin' slick  an'  cunnin'  dough?" 

Both  gazed  in  breathless  admiration  at  the  approaching 
reptile.  Its  sinuous  folds  glistened  below  the  dark,  green 
waves,  its  eyes  gleamed  fiercely  in  the  proudly  poised  head. 

"Dat  snake  'mme  me  of  one  of  dem  boats  I's  tellin"  you 
'bout  little  mistis.  Dey  so  pooty  to  look  at  wid  dey  lights  an' 
dey  caloos  (dat's  de  music),  an"  de  ladies  trampin'  rouu'  de  galry. 
But  law!  we'n  dey  blows  up!  Save  me!  Sich  noise,  screechin" 
fin'  hollerin'  you  niver  heerd  of!  Some  of  dem  passengers 
(dems  de  people  on  de  boat),  dey  flies  up  in  de  air,  some  drap 
down  in  de  big  fernice  in  de  bottom  of  de  boat,  toddeis  bus' 
dey  heads  on  de  levees.  De  ole  folks,  de}'  grabs  hole  of  cotton 
bales  and  cheers  and  chunks  of  wood,  but  dem  po  chillums, 
dey  goes  right  under;  nobody  gwine  to  look  arter  em,  you  bet! 
It's  ev'y  nigger  fur  hisself  and  de  devil  take  de  hin'mos'. '" 

Lucile  listened  to  these  details  with  a  soul  filled  with 
vague  terrors.      She  pictured  in  her  mind  one  of  these  awfql 


60  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

catastiophies  in  wliieli  ber  parents  and  herself  were  to  be  the 
unfortunate  victims.  In  ber  abstraction,  ber  fishing  rod  dropped 
from  her  fingers;  she  made  a  sudden  motion  to  regain  it.  The 
bark  against  which  she  was  resting  her  feet,  gavewa}';  she  lost 
her  balance  and  fell  from  her  seat  into  the  cold  depths  of  the 
bayou.  Zulma  uttered  a  shrill  cry  and  stared,  with  a  wild, 
despairing  look,  on  the  spot  whence  the  child  had  disappeared. 
Lucile  arose  to  the  surface  of  the  water,  throwing  up  her  arras 
and  calling  her  father  in  a  choking,  unnatural  voice.  In  a 
second,  she  again  disappeared  from  sight.  Zulma,  although 
frantic  with  terror,  prostrated  herself  on  the  body  of  the  tree 
and  extended  her  hand  in  readiness  to  seize  her  little  mistress, 
in  case  she  once  more  emerged  within  reach. 

But  a  second  seemed  like  an  eternit}'  to  the  faithful  slave. 
She  would  not  allow  Lucile  to  perish  without  risking  her  own 
life  in  trying  to  save  her.  Selecting  a  position  where  she  could 
sustain  herself  by  clinging  to  one  of  the  strongest  branches, 
she  lowered  herself  iato  the  water.  At  that  very  moment, 
Lucile's  inanimate  form  re-appeared,  and  Zulma,  with  a  des- 
perate effort,  contrived  to  seize  it. 

With  one  arm  she  clung  to  the  limb  for  support,  and 
grasped  her  burden  with  the  other. 

The  air  was  rent  with  her  loud  and  unearthly  outcries. 
"Oh!  Lawd,  Lawd!  Come  quick! — somebody! — come  quick! 
Miss  Lucile  dun  drown!  People,  come  on,  fur  God  sake!" 
She  held  Lucile  in  her  close  embrace,  and  with  presence  of 
mind  rare  in  similar  cases,  she  lifted  with  hpr  chin  the  face  of 
unconscious  child  from  the  water.  Her  superhuman  exer- 
tions and  the  excitement  under  which  she  labored  were  fast 
overpowering  her  strength.  But  she  clung  to  her  young  mis- 
tress, even  when  despair  had  overtaken  her. 

The  workmen  on  the  opposite  shore  had,  from  the  first, 
taken  in  the   situation,  and  with  all    possible  expedition,  had 


A    NARROW    ESCAPE.  Gl 

hurried  to  the  rescue.  They  rushed  down  the  bank  to  the 
skiff  in  which  they  were  in  the  habit  of  crossing  the  bayou 
each  morning. 

"Ole  on,  'ole  on,  gal!"  cried  one  of  the  men,  as  he  ex- 
peditiously unfastened  the  skiff.  "Take  courage,  we  comin' 
—  ole  up,   gal.'' 

With  a  dozen  strokes  of  his  oars  he  managed  to  reach 
the  spot  where  the  exhausted  slave  was  on  the  point  of  sink- 
ing with  her  precious  burden. 

He  lifted  the  child  from  Zulma's  arm  and  laid  her  gently 
down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  He  then  endeavored  to  per- 
suade the  other  to  re-ascend  the  trunk  of  the  fallen  tree,  as  his 
skiff  was  small  and  there  was  danger  of  its  overturning.  This 
he  found  impossible;  the  girl  had  overtaxed  her  strength  and 
was  in  no  condition  to  make  the  exertions. 

"Taker  away  fuss — tak'er  to  her  ma!  Til  'ole  on,"  cried 
the  generous  creature,  clinging  desperately  to  the  limb  which 
had  been  the  means  of  rescue 

The  family,  now  frantic  with  terror,  appeared  on  the  bank. 

Zulma's  piercing  screams  had  reached  their  ears;  for  an 
instant  all  were  stunned  with  surprise  and  apprehension. 

It  ivquired  some  seconds  to  ascertain  whence  had  come 
the  ominious  cries,  or  to  realize  the  cause. 

With  one  accord,  they  rushed  to  the  bank  of  the  bayou; 
the  scene  which  met  their  eyes  once  more  paralyzed  them  with 
terror  and  agon}-. 

They  saw  only  the  precious  body  which  lay  limp  and  life- 
less in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

A  smothered  cry  escaped  the  mother's  white  lips  and  she 
dropped  like  a  stone  as  a  black  shadow  fell  between  her  and 
the  appalling  sight. 


02  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OIJi    SOUTH. 

"Is  she  dead?'  asked  Mr.  Lafitte,  as  the  skili'  touched 
the  shore.  His  voice  was  hoarse  and  strange;  his  frame  shook 
with  cruel  apprehensions. 

"I  think  she  has  only  fainted,"  replied  the  man;  "she  did 
not  remain  long  in  the  water.  " 

"■Uh  ma  ptite!  ma  cheref  cried  the  stricken  grandfather. 
"It  was  through  my  fault  that  thy  precious  life  was  endanger- 
ed, and  I  would  lay  down  a  thousand  lives  for  thine!'' 

It  is  unnecessary  to  record  the  scenes  which  followed  Lu- 
cile's  resuscitation;  Zulma's  rescue,  Mr.  Hunt's  unutterable 
feelings  when  recalled  from  the  field,  or  the  joy  which  succeed- 
ed despair  when  the  suil'erers  had  been  restored  to  health. 

"Mamma,  I  have  something  to  tell  you.'  said  Lucile,  the 
next  morning  after  the  accident  which  had  so  nearly  cost  htr 
her  life,  "(lod  was  very  good  to  let  Zulraa  take  me  out  of  the 
water!" 

"Indeed  He  was,  m}'  precious,  we  should  never  forget 
His  mercy." 

"But  mamma,  He  had  a  great  notion  to  let  me  drown.  I 
had  been  very  wicked  just  a  little  while  before  I  fell  in." 

"You,  wicked,  Lucile!  what  do  yuu  mean?" 

"I  wanted  to  tell  Zulma  a  story,  mamma,"  answered  the 
child,  covering  her  face  to  hide  her  confusion. 

"A  story!  and  why  should  you?''  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hunt 
Aviih  amazement. 

"Well  mamma  she  was  telling  me  aljout  so  many  things 
I  knew  nothing  of  and  I  had  never  seen.  I  was  ashamed  that 
she  knew  more  tban  I.  When  she  asked  me  whether  I  had 
ever  seen  a  steamboat — she  meant  a  rral  steamboat — I  told  her 
I  had." 

"My  darling,  how  could  you? 


A    NARROW    ESCAPE.  63 

"I  though t  I  had  fixed  it  up  all  right  with  my  conscience, 
that  voice  you  told  me  of.  I  had  seen  pictures  of  steamboats. 
I  thought  it  came  to  the  same — that  is — I  tried  to  think  so, 
but  it  would  never  do:  I  know  it  would  be  wrong." 

"If  you  meant  to  deceive  her,  it  was  certainly  wrong." 

"And  was  it  a  story,  mamma?" 

"I  am  sorry  to  say,  it  was.  ' 

Tears  started  in  the  large,  sad  eyes  of  the  child. 

"And  suppose  I  had  drowned,  mamma?" 

Mrs.  Hunt  kissed  her  quivering  lips. 

"God  is  all  merciful,  m}-  love,  when  you  struggled  in  the 
cold  water,  j^ou  remembered  your  sins  and  felt  sorry  for  them, 
no  doubt. " 

"No,  I  did  not;  it  was  so  awful,  I  could  think  of  nothing; 
only  when  I  came  up  and  saw  the  banks  and  trees  again,  I 
thought  of  papa  and  called  him  to  take  me  out." 

At  this  moment  Zulma  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Come,  Zulma,"  cried  Lucile,  extending  her  hand. 

"How  does  )'ou  feel.  Miss  Lucile?  ' 

"O  very  much  better  than  last  night."' 

Zulma  approached  the  bed  and  laid  her  small,  black  hand 
upon  Lucile's  fair  and  delicate  fingers. 

"I  thank  you  a  thousand  times  Zulma,  for  taking  me  out 
of  the  water." 

"0  datnuflBn',  little  mistis, "  replied  the  slave  timidly  and 
with  hesitation.  '  'I  wasn't  gwine  to  let  you  drown  by  yourself, 
nohow." 

"What  must  I  give  you  for  what  you  did?" 

"Nuffin'  'fall,  mistis,  1  was  glad  'nuff  to  pick  j-ou  out  'er 
de  bayou;  but,"  continued  she,  glancing  towards  her  mistress, 
"I  was  pooty  skeered,  I  kin  tell  you." 


64  ZUl.MA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOTTII. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Hunt  left  the  room,  Zulma  stooped  over 
and  asked  in  a  low  voice:  "Did  you  go  an'  tell  yo'  ma  how 
you  cum  fall  off  de  ole  log,  little  mistis?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Lucile,  recalling  with  appre- 
hension the  circumstances  of  her  falsehood. 

"Don't  you  "member  "bout  dat  boat  bustin'?" 

"No,  I  didn't  tell  mamma,  for  I  don't  know  myself,  luni- 
I  came  to  fall  off  that  tree.  " 

"Den,  fur  de  Lawd,  don't  you  tell,  Miss  Lucile,  I'se  niver 
gwine  to  furgiv"  myself  fur  skeerin'  you  so!'" 

"I  shall  never  speak  of  it  Zulma,  but  papa  intends  to  pay 
you  for  saving  my  life.  He  will  giA'e  you  (inijthltiy  you  ask 
for  Zulma.'" 

"Go  'long,  little  mistis!  I  dont  want  no  pay  fur  lishin" 
you  out.  Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  me  skeered  you  inter  de 
bayou?" 

"Well  that  wouldn't  keep  you  from  asking  for  something 
you  wanted  real  l)ad,  Zulma." 

"Dat's  so!"  replied  Zn^ma,  running  her  eyes  along  the 
ceiling  while  making  a  mental  inventory  of  her  wardrobe. 
There  was  nothing  in  that  line  that  could  add  to  her  comfort 
or  happiness,  she  thought  except  a  pink  calico  gown  for  next 
Easter,  but  then,  there  ought  to  be  something  better  than  that, 
a  pair  of  cloth  gaiters,  for  instance!  "No,"  decidedly  thought 
Zulma,  da'U  wear  out  befo'  I  km  turn  'roun',  my  feet  deaf  on 
shoes.  "0  yes!  now  I  got  it!''  she  exclaimed,  looking  beam- 
ingly down  on  Lucile.  "Sumfin'  I  wants  drea'ful  bad,  but  I 
knows  dey's  no  use  axin,  1  wont  git  it." 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,"  asked  Lucile,  somewhat  dismayed  at 
Znlraa's  ambitious  demand,  whatever  that  might  be,  "perhaps 
papa  will  buy-^it  when  he  goes  to  New  Orleans.  *' 


A   NARROW    ESCAPE.  65 

"But  he  ain't  gwine  ter  buy  it,"  replied  Zulma.  with  an 
emphatic  nod. 

Lucile  stared  at  the  girl  with  increasing  surprise.  '  'Where 
must  he  get  it  from  then?" 

"  He  ain't  gwine  to  git,  jis  gwine  ter  say:  '■'■Zidma,  you 
kin  leave  de  feel  noio  an  go  ter  de  house;  I  gee  pouter  yo'  little 
mistis,  fur  good  an'  fin-  ever!''' 

"Why  Zulma!"  cried  Lucile,  with  a  joyous  expression 
lightening  up  her  pretty  face,  "that  won't  be  a  hit  hard  for 
papa  to  say,  and  I'll  be  ever  so  glad  to  have  you  to  wait  on  me 
just  a  little,  you  know,  Zulma,  like  Plaisance  does  on  grand- 
mere." 

"Dat'll  be  a  'unded  times  easier  den  pullin'  de  hoe,  an' 
pickin' dead  loads  of  cotton,"  remarked  Zulma,  lifting  Lucile 
from  the  pillows  in  order  to  shake  and  rearrange  them.  "An' 
den,"  continued  she,  "I'd  rudder  b'long  to  you,  'cause  I  love 
you,  little  mistis!" 

Lucile  had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  Zulma's  request. 


66  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

lucile's    guest. 

/^NE  evening,  in  the  early  part  of  September,  Zulma  came 
^-^  to  her  mistress  for  permission  to  take  Lucile  out  to  gather 
muscadines. 

Since  the  incident  recorded  in  the  preceding  chapter, 
Zulma  had  been  unusually  indulged  by  her  owners;  her  wishes 
were  seldom  disregarded. 

"We  jis  gwine  ter  de  fur  bridge,"  she  explained,  "lyeard 
muscadines  'bout  dere  jis  bnstin'  wid  juice." 

Ijucile,  who  was  sitting  under  the  mulberry  trees  hemming 
handkerchiefs,  started  up  with  an  eager  expression  on  her  face. 

"Let  me  go,  mamma,"  she  pleaded,  "I  shall  bring  you 
the  nicest  I  find." 

"On  one  condition,  darling,"  replied  her  mother,  gazing 
fondly  into  the  child's  Ijright  eyes. 

"I  know,  mamma;  I  musn't  run  along  the  trunks  of  trees 
when  they're  near  the  water. " 

Mrs,  Hunt  smiled  rather  ruefully.  "And  you  must  not 
stray  off  farther  than  the  bridge  " 

About  a  half  a  mile  from  the  house,  a  deep  bayou  ran 
from  the  rear  of  the  place  into  Grosse  Tete.  A  decided  depres- 
sion at  its  mouth  compelled  Mr.  Hunt  to  bridge  it  at  a  consid- 
erable distance  above  it,  thus  leaving  a  large  strip  of  land  be- 
tween the  bayou  and  the  public  road.  The  wild  grape  and 
muscadine  vines  scaled  the  veneral)le  trees  which  shaded  the 
ground;  the  Virginia  Creeper  and  Parsiflora  clutched  at  every 
bush  within  reach.     It  was  a  spot  where  the  birds  loved  to 


lucile's  guest.  67 

build  and  to  enliven  with  their  songs.  The  bridge  with  its 
natural  surroundings  was  a  charming  bit  of  landscape.  The 
willow  and  gum  trees  which  grew  in  the  bed  of  the  bayou,  in- 
terlaced their  limbs  above  it  in  the  form  of  a  canopy.  The 
place  was  a  favorite  resort  of  the  Hunt  family,  and  many  were 
the  Sabbath  evenings  they  spent  here,  sitting  on  the  glossy 
slope,  listening  to  the  low  murmur  of  the  water  pouring  into 
Grrosse  Tete. 

Lucile  and  Zulma  began  prospecting  as  soon  as  they 
reached  their  destination. 

"Le'  's  hunt  fur  maypops  fuss  thing,  little  mistis,"  said 
Zulma,  peering  into  a  bush.      "Lor  me!  here's  a  ness  of  'em!" 

"A  nest  of  birds'  eggs?" 

"Of  maypops,  chile;  jess  look  at  'em!" 

Lucile  stood  on  tiptoe  and  peered  into  the  recess. 

"My!  are  they  not  fine  and  ripe?" 

"You  bet;  dey's  mos'  a  dozen  of  'em;  jess  'nuff  fur  you 
an'  me." 

"Why,  how  many  can  you.  eat — you?" 

"Looky  'ere.  Miss  Lucile,  dat'en  what's  gwine  to  crawl 
'mongst  dem  snakes,  got  de  right  tode  biggest  sheer." 

"Are  there  snakes  under  there?"  asked  Lucile. 

"You  better  b'lieve,  an'  rattlesnakes  too." 

"Mamma  shouldn't  like  for  me  to  be  bitten,"  said  Lucile, 
in  a  deprecating  tone;  "nor  would  she  like  for  them  to  bite 
you;  come  away,  Zulma. " 

Zulma  laughed  at  the  precautions  of  her  young  mistress. 

"Go  'long — I'se  useter  snakes!  ^'ew  I  was  livin'  wid  my 
tudder  marster,  snakes  an'  me  useter  sleep  under  de  same  bush. " 
She  took  no  notice  of  the  horror-stricken  v  isage  beside  her,  but 
plunged  headlong  into  the  tangled  shrubbery,  and  quickly 
jSlled  her  apron  with  the  fragrant  fruit, 


68  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

She  then  went  from  one  muscadine  vine  to  auotiier,  and 
shook  to  the  ground  the  grapes  which  were  in  reality  "bursting 
with  juice  and  ripeness."  , 

"The  basket  is  full  now,  let  us  swing,"  said  Lucile  climb- 
ing upon  one  of  the  vines  which  proved  most  convenient  for 
that  purpose.  She  sat  upon  it  for  some  time,  swaying  grace- 
fully to  and  fro,  like  a  flower  on  its  stem. 

The  sound  of  approaching  steps  alarmed  her;  she  had 
never  before  been  intruded  upon  m  her  ramblings;  she  sprang 
lightly  from  her  seat  and  stood  for  a  moment  in  a  listening  at- 
titude. 

"From  where  did  3'ou  drop,  child?" 

Lucile  gazed  with  astonishment  into  the  face  of  a  stranger 
who  stood  staring  at  her  with  equal  amazement. 

"From  the  muscadine  vine,  Sir,"  responded  she,  giving  a 
literal  interpretation  to  his  question. 

"Let's  run,  Miss  Lucile,  he's  a  'sassiner!'"  cried  Zulma, 
standing  in  the  background!" 

But  her  mistress  swept  the  curls  from  her  moistened  brow 
and  gazed  inquiringly  into  the  stranger's  face. 

"And  you  sir — where  did — yoa  drop  from?"  asked  she 
with  a  sunny  smile. 

"From  the  sk}",  would  you  suppose?" 

"I  know  better  than  that,"  replied  Lucile,  emphatically, 
shaking  her  head. 

"But  how  came  you  to  find  us  out.      Could  you  see   us 

from  the  road?" 

"No,  but  I  heard  you    t:dking;  you  were    having  a    merry 

time,  eh?" 

"Indeed  we  were,  swinging  and  gathering  muscadines." 
"Miss  Lucile,  I  say,  cum  away;  dat  man's  a  robber — fuss 
thing  }ou  know,  he'll  clap  oil'  yo'   'ead  an'  run  off  wid  boff  yo' 

year-ring. "' 


lucile's  quest.  69 

The  idea  was  so  preposterous,  the  child  broke  into  a 
merry  peal  of  laughter. 

"But  3'ou  won't,  though?"  she  asked,  turning  her  bright 
countenance  towards  the  stranger. 

'  'Not  for  all  the  ear-rings  m  the  world,  my  little  friend. 
You  may  trust  me!" 

In  truth,  there  was  nothing  in  the  gentleman's  appear- 
ance to  alarm  Lucile.  His  attire,  his  deportment  and  the 
benevolent  expression  of  his  features  disarmed  her  fears.  He 
was  very  much  like  her  own  papa,  she  thought ;  only,  his  whiskers 
were  grey.  He,  m  turn,  surveyed  her  with  surprise,  and  spec- 
ulated on  her  grace,  her  beauty  and  her  dress — a  jaconet 
dotted  with  pale  blue  stars,  tastefully  trimmed  with  valenci- 
enne.  He  noticed  too,  the  neatness  with  which  her  shoes  were 
laced,  and  even  the  tiny  handkerchief  which  protruded  from 
her  apron  pocket.  As  he  so  rudely  interrupted  the  party,  he 
offered  to  assist  Lucile  in  gathering  the  muscadines  that  had 
been  spilt  from  the  basket.  She  thanked  him  with  a  sweet, 
frank  smile,  saying: 

"Xow,  I'm  going  home;  shouldn't  you  like  to  come  with 
me?" 

"Thank  you  very  much;  nothing  would  give  me  more 
pleasure." 

He  had  wandered  out  of  his  way ;  he  was  tired,  the  day 
was  at  its  close,  what  harm  could  there  be  in  accepting  the 
child's  invitation?  And  then,  he  was  curious  to  know  some- 
thing of  her  connections:  her  surroundings  were  so  incongru- 
ous with  her  gentility  of  appearance. 

He  thus  mentally  framed  his  excuses  as  he  followed,  lead- 
ing his  horse  by  the  bridle, 

Zulma,  with  a  lowering  countenance,  walked  at  some  dis- 
ta  nee  behind  them  carrying  a  formidable  looking  club. 


70  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

When  they  got  to  the  bridge,  the  stranger  paused  for  a 
moment  and  glanced  up  at  the  drooping  boughs  entwined  by 
the  thick,  clustering  vines. 

"'Tis  a  real  bower!"  he  exclaimed  in  admiration. 

"May  I  tell  y©u  what  it  is?"  asked  Lugile. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  know." 

'•A  wisteria  vine." 

"Indeed!  and  how  did  you  find  out?" 

"Because  in  spring  it  is  covered  with  beautiful  purple 
flowers;  they  hang  all  about  it  in  great  bunches.  Mamma 
picked  some  of  them  to  pieces  and  said  they  were  wisterias. 
Can  you  analyze?" 

"I  am  ashamed  to  confess,  I  cannot." 

"You  needn't  be  ashamed  of  it;  papa  himself  can't." 

The  child  bounded  oflf  from  the  bridge  to  a  small  elevation 
of  land  opposite. 

"Do  you  know  what  tJds  is?" 

"A  knoll,  I  should  think." 

"Well,  no;  this  is  an  Indian  grave;  the  darkeys  told  me 
so,  and  I  come  here  sometimes  to  pray  for  their  poor  souls." 

The  stranger  laughed  outright. 

Lucile  stood  upon  the  mound,  abashed.  Her  rosebud  lips 
formed  themselves  into  a  pout  and  she  descended,  crestfallen. 

"Please  forgive  me,  little  friend;  I  meant  no  offense;  but 
the  idea  of  your  praying  for  the  Indians  struck  me  as  being 
very — funny." 

"You're  as  bad  as  Zuliua  there;  when  I  ask  her  to  pray 
for  them,  she  laughs  too,  and  says  she  glad  the3''e  dead." 

'  'An'  I  is, "  responded  a  voice  in  the  rear. 

Great  was  Mrs.  Hunt's  astonishment  on  beholding  her 
daughter  crossing  the  stile  with  a  stranger  at  her  heels. 


lucile's  guest.  71 

< 'Mamma, "  said  Lucile  on  reaching  the  house,  "this  is  a 
gentleman  I  found  on  the  road,  near  the  bridge;  he  was  lost 
and  I  asked  him  to  come." 

The  view  the  child  had  taken  of  her  protege  was  so  much 
like  that  she  might  have  taken  of  a  kitten  or  some  stray  animal 
fallen  on  her  way,  that  Mrs.  Hunt  found  it  hard  to  control  her 
humor. 

"Madam,"  said  the  stranger,  "I  hope  you  will  excuse 
this  intrusion,  and  the  liberty  I  have  taken  m  accepting  your 
daughter's  kind  invitation.  My  name  is  Davis.  I  was  on  my 
way  to  Fordoche,  and  was  examining  the  features  of  this  part 
of  the  country,  when  I  came  upon  her.  I  must  confess,  the 
sight  of  such  a  child  in  a  wilderness,  was  surprising  and  per- 
plexing to  a  traveler. 

An  amused  but  affable  smile  lighted  up  Mrs.  Hunt's 
sweet  countenance  as  she  answered:  "It  is  rather  late  for 
you  to  resume  your  journey,  Mr.  Davis.  Allow  me  to  second 
my  daughter's  invitation  by  offering  you  a  night's  hospitality, 
if  indeed,  you  are  willing  to  put  up  with  the  inconviences  of 
pioneer  life. " 

The  gracious  invitation,  as  may  be  supposed,  was  grate- 
fully accepted. 

"Bring  out  the  chairs,  Lucile, "  said  Mrs.  Hunt.  "It  is 
so  much  pleasanter  out  here,  sir,  than  in  the  house;  we  gen- 
erally sit  here  in  the  evening  to  enjoy  the  breeze  and  the  rust- 
ling of  the  mulberry  leaves  overhead. " 

Lucile,  after  a  moment's  absence,  returned,  carrying  on  a 
waiter,  glasses  of  raspberry  syrup.  She  handed  one  to  her 
guest,  saying:  "It  is  cool  and  nice;  I've  just  pumped  the 
water  out  of  the  well. " 

"What  a  very  kind  little  girl  you  are,  miss,"  replied  Mr, 
Davis.     He  drank  with  avidity  the  contents  of  the  glass. 


72  ZULMA,     A    STORT    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"I  was  very  thirsty  and  found  your  syrup  delicious, 
Lucile." 

Both  Lucile  and  her  mother  thought  it  a  treat  to  have  a 
stranger  to  talk  to,  and  to  listen  to  what  he  had  to  say  of 
other  parts  of  the  country.  But  after  a  while  Mrs.  Hunt  arose 
and  excused  herself,  leaving  Lucile  in  charge  of  her  guest  until 
she  ordered  supper. 

"I  was  'frade  of  you  w'en  I  fust  seed  you,"  said  Zulma, 
approaceing  with  a  broad  grin. 

"And  you  took  me  for  a  robber,"  answered  Mr.  Davis 
good  humoredly. 

"I  did  so." 

"I  noticed  how  careful  you  were  of  your  own  safety;  you 
surely  wouldn't  have  got  hurt  if  I  had  happened  to  be  one.  ' 

"Who,  me?  I  was  playin'  possum;  if  you  hed  raised  yo 
finger  on  Miss  Lucile,  I  was  gwine  to  club  de  life  out'er  you!" 

"You  must  excuse  Zulma,"  said  Lucile. somewhat  ashamed 
at  her  maid's  conduct.  "She  does  not  mean  to  be  saucy; 
that's  her  way  of  talking  to  people.  Won't  you  walk  with  me 
to  the  stile?"  she  continued,  as  if  to  conciliate  her  new  friend. 
"I'll  show  you  a  place  where  an  old  owl  has  built  her  nest.  She 
must  be  setting  now,  for  every  night  her  neighbors  come  to  see 
her  and  they  have  a  terrible  time  of  it  hoo-ooing  and  haw-haw- 
ing." 

"You  have  lugubrious  neighbors,  Lucile." 

"Do  you  mean  Mr.  Narsis  across  the  bayou?"  Lucile 
asked  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

"Yes,  are  you  as  sociable  as  the  owls?" 

"About  the  same,"  replied  Lucile,  with  a  merry  laugh. 
"We  often  talk  to  each  other,  but  we  never  make  the  fuss  the 
owls  make." 


lucile's  guest.  73 

Zulma  had  followed  the  couple  to  the  road;  the  idea  oc- 
curred to  her  that  this  was  a  splendid  opportunity  to  display 
her  talents — musical  as  well  as  terpsichorean,  and  she  whis- 
pered her  design  into  Lucile's  ear. 

"Mr.  Davis,"  Lucile  began  in  a  timid  voice.  '-Zulma 
wants  to  dance  for  you. " 

"Not  a  war-dance,  I  hope,"  replied  Mr.  Davis,  turning  to 
Zulma  with  an  amused  smile.  "You  may  go  ahead,  Zulma,  I 
shall  be  delighted  to  see  you  dance." 

Zulma  did  not  wait  for  a  second  bidding;  she  walked  to  a 
level  space  across  the  road  and  stood  for  an  instant  erect,  one 
foot  planted  before  the  other  like  a  circus  girl  waiting  for  the 
music.  On  a  sudden,  she  began  singing,  and  a  succession  of 
brilliant  airs  rippled  from  her  lips,  as  clear  and  sweet  as  the 
notes  of  a  nightingale.  She  fell  into  the  measures  of  one 
dance  after  another  with  no  perceptible  interruption.  Her  coal 
black  eyes  sparkled;  her  countenance  lighted  up  with  increas- 
ing delight.  She  flung  her  arms  now  upwards,  now  downwards, 
and  twirled  them  above  her  head  in  graceful  motions.  She 
was  like  one  intoxicated  with  the  sound  of  her  own  voluptuous 
singing.  At  last;  she  paused  and  stood  for  a  moment  listen- 
ing to  the  expiring  echoes  of  her  voice  in  the  gloomy  woods 
across  the  bayou.  Twilight  had  vanished,  and  the  moon's 
broad  disc  emerged  from  a  dark  outline  of  trees,  bathing  the 
landscape  in  a  silvery  sheen. 

Mr.  Davis,  who  had  indifferently  consented  to  look  upon 
the  dance,  sat  upon  the  stile  in  bewilderment.  It  was  hard  for 
him  to  realize  that  the  brilliant  and  beautiful  notes  which  still 
lingered  on  his  ear,  emanated  from  a  slave  living  in  the  back- 
woods— a  creature  who,  a  few  moments  since,  appeared  to  him 
the  personification  of  stupidity. 


74  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Lucile,  after  a  brief  silence,  looked  up  inquiringly  into 
his  face ;  she  feared  that  her  friend  had  failed  to  appreciate  the 
performance. 

"She  sings  very  well,  don't  you  think?" 

"She  has  an  extraordinary  voice,"  was  his  reply.  "Zulma, 
here  is  a  quarter,  you  dance  as  well  as  any  circus  girl." 

Mr.  Davis  could  not  have  paid  her  a  greater  compliment, 
and  she  exclaimed  with  pi.'ide: 

"You  juss  hit  it  marster,  its  frum  dem  I  learn." 

At  this  moment,  Mr.  Hunt  joined  the  group,  and  extended 
a  cordial  greeting  to  the  stranger  who  was  to  be  his  guest. 

Within  the  limited  space  of  the  planter's  dining-room,  the 
family  sat  down  to  a  sumptuous  repast  that  evening, 

First  they  tasted  of  the  succulent  trout,  fresh  from  the 
cold  bosom  ot  Grosse  Tete.  Fowls  roasted  with  culinary  art, 
were  serred  with  delicious  home-ma(te  jellies;  then  a  pate,  and 
rolls  as  light  as  sea  foam  appeared  with  a  pyramid  of  golden 
butter.  There  was  a  pot  of  fragrant  tea  and  a  dessert  of  ex- 
quisitely preserved  fruit,  and  for  those  who  wished,  a  glass  of 
cold  milk,  rich  as  cream.  The  guest,  within  the  rude  walls  of 
that  cabin- home,  could  hardly  conceal  his  surprise  at  the  in- 
congruities which  everywhere  startled  his  mind.  The  home, 
he  perceived,  contained  but  three  apartments.  Receptions 
were  made  in  the  bedroom,  and  the  meals  were  taken  in  one 
with  barely  space  for  the  chairs  and  table.  Another  as  small, 
furnished  with  a  single  bed,  was  allotted  to  him  for  the  night. 
Notwithstanding  these  inconveniences,  hospitality  was  dis- 
pensed with  ease  and  grace,  and  there  prevailed  in  the  house- 
hold, an  atmosphere  of  refinement  seldom  found  even  in  the 
homes  of  the  wealthy. 

In  the  morning,  the  traveler  took  his  departure,  carrving 
with  him,  the  remembrance  of  a  tear  glittering  in   the  eyes  of 


lucile's  guest.  75 

a  lovely  child;  of  a  woman's  sweet  face,  framed  in  the 
threshold  of  an  humble  cabin,  and  of  the  warm  pressure  of  a 
friendly  hand,  given  him  at  the  stile. 

»  The  family  of  Creoles  who  had  moved  into  the  log  cabin 
on  the  bank  opposite  Mr.  Hunt's  place,  consisted  of  an  old 
planter,  wife  and  several  grown  sons.  Old  Mr.  Narsis  was  a 
great  hunter;  he  often  came  over  with  a  haunch  of  venison  or 
a  brace  of  partridge  for  his  little  friend,  '  'Meez  Lucie. " 

To  him  she  was  a  being  infinitely  supeiior  to  any  he  had 
ever  met,  and  he  rendered  her  homage  by  presenting  her  from 
time  to  time  such  tokens  as  fell  within  the  range  of  his  limited 
circumstances. 

^^La  v'la  la  p'tite!''  he  once  exclaimed,  as  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  white  garments  fluttering  among  the  thickets. 

' '  'Ello  Meez  Lucie !  to-morror  me  bring  you  sum  schnipes. " 

"Oh!  never  mind  about  killing  the  poor  snipes,  Mr. 
Narsis,"  answered  the  tender-hearted  Lucile,  bring  me,  instead, 
those  turtle  shells  you  promised  me. " 

"Wat  you  wants  dem  shells  fur.  Ma p'titeV 

"To  sow  flower  seeds  in,  Mr.  Narsis." 

'■'■Quelle  idief  You  no  trade,  me  no  figit  you,  Meez 
Lucie!" 

For  a  number  of  years,  the  Narsis  family  was  the  only 
one  within  sight  of  the  Hunt  place.  Often,  on  warm  summer 
evenings,  Lucile  and  her  parents  sought  the  cool  shade  on  the 
bank;  here,  they  exchanged  greetings  and  held  friendly  con- 
verse with  their  neighbors  across  the  water. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  have  them  there,  notwithstanding  the 
uncongeniality  of  their  minds;  their  presence  was  the  one  social 
link  in  that  interminable  solitude. 


76  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    DAWSEYS — DEATH  IN  THE  MIDST  OF  LIFE. 

Mr.  Dawsey  was  a  West  Feliciana  farmer.  He  came  to 
Grosse  Tete  about  five  years  after  Mr.  Hunt,  and  as  they  were 
near  neighbors,  tlie  two  were  often  thrown  together. 

They  differed  widely  in  agricultural  theories  as  well  as  in 
disposition. 

The  bluntness  of  Mr.  Dawsey's  expressions  and  the  eccen- 
tricity of  his  eharacter,  made  heavy  demands  on  his  neighbor's 
forbearance.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  making  his  calls  on 
Sunday  evenings,  when  the  weather  permitted;  he  preferred  a 
seat  under  the  mulberry  trees  where  he  ensconced  himself  in  a 
comfortable  arm  chair  and  smoked  his  pipe  at  leisure.  He 
had  a  keen  relish  for  a  sip  of  peach  brandy  or  a  glass  of  old 
claret  which  Mr.  Hunt  occasionally  set  before  him.  The  con- 
versation between  the  two,  was  at  times,  diverting.  One  eA^en- 
ing,  Mr.  Dawsey  arrived  in  a  mood,  even  more  irascible  than 
usual. 

"Mr.  Hunt,"  he  began,  "I've  come  to  see  you  about  those 
impudent  niggers  of  yours;  if  you  don't  get  them  to  mend  their 
ways,  I  mean  to  hurt  some  of  'em." 

"What  is  wrong  now?"  asked  Mr.  Hunt  in  a  tone  which 
plainly  indicated  that  this  was  not  the  first  complaint  laid  be- 
fore him  by  the  gruff'  old  planter.  "Have  my  hands  been  tress- 
passing on  your  place  again?" 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,  though  I'm  sure  they  come  sneak- 
ing in  at  night,  whenever  they  have  a  chance;  but  I  have  come 
to  warn  you  that  your  drivers  have  got  into  the  habit  of  insult- 
ing me  each  time  they  pass  my  place." 


THE    DAWSEYS — DEATH    IN   THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE.  77 

•'Is  it  possible!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Hunt.  "Aud  in  what 
manner  have  they  insulted  you,  Mr.  Dawsey?" 

'  'Why,  by  yellin'j;  and  singing  and  raising  a  h — 1  of  a  noise 
coming  back  from  the  river;  one  wuuld  believe  the  whole  cre- 
ation belonged  to  them.  I'm  not  going  to  stand  this  any 
longer.  I'm  not  going  to  have  m}'  night's  rest  broke  up  by 
any  such  infernal  racket;  and  I  mean  to  put  a  stop  to  it  even 
if  I  have  to  do  it  with  my  shotgun." 

"Your  slumbers  will  not  be  disturbed  again,  sir,  I  prom- 
ise 3'ou.  I  shall  order  my  teamsters  to  curb  their  animal 
spirits  when  passing  over  your  premises,  though,  I  am  sure, 
they  have'nt  the  remotest  idea  of  anno3'ing  you. " 

"Tut,  tut,  they  know  very  well  that  I  don't  allow  my 
niggers  to  turn  my  plantation  into  a  Methodist  camp.  I'll 
bet  my  head  they  do  it  to  vex  me." 

"But  I  have  never  objected  to  their  singing,  Mr.  Dawsey, 
and  they  are  in  the  habit  of  doing  it,  particularly  when  at 
work.  "To  tell  the  truth,"  continued  Mr. -Hunt  smiling,  "I 
rather  lik^  to  hear  them  sing;  it  shows  that  the}'  are  in  a  good 
humor,  and  that  they  work  with  cheerful  hearts." 

Mr.  Dawsey  groaned.  "If  every  planter  was  to  follow 
your  way  of  managing  niggers,  the  country  would  soon  go  to 
the  dogs." 

Mr.  Hunt  laughed.  "I  am  considered  a  very  successful 
planter,  Mr.  Dawsey,"  my  property  increases  in  value  every 
year,  and  if  nothing  happens,  I  mean  to  make  a  fortune  right 
here,  without  deviating  from  my  adopted  methods  of  cultiva- 
tion and  management." 

"I  reckon  j'ou  will,  with  a  streak  of  good  luck  following 
right  behind  you.  You're  got  the  best  land  in  the  State;  you 
haven't  lost  a  nigger  since  you  commenced  planting;  never  had 
sickness  among  them  to  stop  work,  and  I'll  be  hanged  if  you 
haven't  got  the  weather  to  back  you,  besides!" 


78  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH, 

"I  am  obliged  to  the  weather,  I'm  sure,"  replied  Mr. 
Hunt,  highly  amused.  "I  was  not  aware  of  its  partiality  be- 
fore; on  the  contrary,  I  have  been  wasting  my  energies  calcu- 
lating and  mana^uvring  in  order  to  take  every  advantage  of  it. 
The  absence  of  sickness  among  m}-  negroes  is  due,  in  part, 
to  the  care  I  take  of  them." 

The  difference  of  opinion  on  the  part  of  the  planters  did 
not  interfere  with  the  friendly  intercourse  which  existed  be- 
tween their  families. 

Kate  and  Annie  Dawsey.  eight  and  ten  years  of  age,  were 
pleasant  associates  of  Lucile's,  and  many  were  the  rambles 
they  had  together  searching  along  the  bayous  for  spider  lilies 
and  other  wild  flowers  in  springtime,  and  for  persimmons,  may- 
pops  and  the  scarlet  berries  of  the  sumach,  in  the  fall.  They 
returned  from  their  jaunts  with  a  stock  of  adventures  which 
they  related  to  Mrs.  Hunt  while  partaking  of  the  tempting 
lunch  she  always  prepared  for  them — slices  of  ham  and  biscuits 
or  buttered  rolls;  sometimes  a  pie  with  a  pitcher  of  rich  milk, 
or  a  plate  of  dainty  lady  fingers. 

Little  Katie  was  a  sweet,  blue-eyed  child  with  rioting 
golden  hair.  Her  heart  was  so  loving  and  tender,  she  would 
mourn  for  days,  over  the  loss  of  a  pet  rabbit,  or  weep  at  the 
death  of  a  cow  or  any  other  domestic  animal.  She  was  devot- 
edly attached  to  Lucile,  and  her  pale,  delicate  face  was  often 
laid  in  loving  contact  with  the  rosy  cheeks  of  her  friend. 

Nannie  was  less  lovely  than  her  sister,  and  of  a  more  in- 
dependent nature.  The  little  girls  had  never  been  sent  to 
school  and  their  home  education  had  been  so  deficient, 
especially  when  compared  to  Lucile's,  that  she  obtained  per- 
mission from  her  parents  to  teach  them  as  far  as  her  capacity 
extended.  On  the  first  morning  she  was  to  assume  her  duties, 
Lucile  awaited  with  impatience  the  arrival  of  her  pupils.     In 


THE    DAWSEYS — DEATH    IN    THE    MIDST    OF    LIEE.  79 

due  time,  thev  made  their  appearance,  staggering  beneath  the 
weight  of  their  school  bags,  which  had  been  well  filled  with  a 
miscellaneous  assortment  of  books  and  pamphlets  culled  from 
a  decrepid  library.  Happily,  tbeir  young  teacher  was  able  to 
supply  them  with  books  and  other  articles  necessary  for  the 
pursuit  of  their  studies. 

Though  an  enthusiastic  teacher,  Lucile  was  not  a  disci- 
plinarian. It  was  not  an  unusual  custom  with  her  to  suspend 
her  classes  for  an  hour's  romp, or  for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining 
the  cause  of  a  disturbance  in  the  poultry  yard.  But,  alas!  a 
sadder  and  more  lasting  interruption  was  to  break  up  her  little 
school. 

On  a  warm,  sunny  day  in  October,  her  pupils  arrived  in  a 
high  state  of  excitement. 

"Oh!  Lucile,"  exclaimed  Nannie,  "papa's commenced  gin- 
ning, and  he  says  we  must  all  come  to  the  gin  after  we  get 
through  with  our  lessons." 

"You  too,  Lucile!"  exclaimed  little  Katie  throwing  her 
arms  around  her  teacher's  neck. 

"We  are  going  to  have  lots  of  fun  playing  lost  in  the 
snow,"  said  Nannie,  fanning  her  cheek  with  her  sunbonnet. 
"Kate'll  be  the  lost  child  and  will  lay  down  in  the  lint-room 
until  she  is  covered  up  with  lint;  then  you  and  me  will  hunt 
her  up,  Lucile." 

"But  who'll  be  the  dog?"  asked  Katie,  the  blood  mount- 
ing to  her  cheeks  with  pleasurable  anticipations. 

"I'll  be  the  dog,"  replied  Nannie;  "and  the  way  I  shake 
you  out  of  that  cotton  will  make  you  wish  you  had  never  been 
lost." 

Kate  opened  wide  her  appealing  eyes.  "Oh!  Nannie," 
she  cried.      "Let's  ride  on  the  lever  instead;  it's  such  fun." 


80  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

I 

"Nannie  shall  not  tease  you,  dear,"  said  Lucile,  drawing 
the  child  towards  her;  "and  we  are  going  in  now  to  study  our 
lessons,  or  else  I  shall  be  awfully  cross  and  mean." 

The  young  teacher  assumed  an  air  of  dignity  and  opened 
her  athis;  the  little  girls  followed  iier  example,  and  for  a  tin  e 
bent  over  their  books  in  earnest  study.  Lucile  had  never  tried 
to  wheedle  her  pupils  into  knowledge;  but  had,  by  some  happy 
device  of  her  own,  awakened  their  interest  in  their  books,  and 
they  seldom  missed  their  lessons.  Little  Katie,  especially, 
was  as  docile  and  as  sensitive  as  a  fawn;  but  to-day,  her 
thouglits  wandered  off,  and  her  laughing  eyes  looked  into 
Lucile's  with  unutterable  expressions. 

"Well,  Katie,  tell  it,"  said  her  teacher  smiling.  "I  see 
you  are  dying  to  say  something." 

"[t's  about  the  gin,  Lucile.  Won't  it  be  nice  riding  on 
the  lever?  I  can  see  the  big  wheel  turning  and  me  sitting  on 
it  going  around?" 

"You  had  better  jump  down  and  study  your  lesson," 
suggested  Nannie. 

"Yes,  Katie,  I  advise  you  to  put  off  the  ride  until  after 
class"  remarked  Lucile;    "or  else  I  shall  keep  you  in  penance." 

Lucile  had  never  had  occasion  to  threaten  before,  and 
the  r(0)uke  was  too  much  for  the  little  fluttering  heart.  Katie 
burst  into  tears. 

"Why  you  are  the  sweetest,  the  cutest  and  dearest  child 
in  the  world,"  cried  Lucile  straining  Katie  to  her  heart;  "and 
I  don't  know  what  made  me  say  what  I  did.  You  need  not 
study  if  you  don't  want  to.  Katie;  that's  the  way  I  feel  some- 
times, and  mamma  sends  me  for  a  walk.  Here's  your  bonnet. 
Let  us  go;  you  will  feel  ever  so  much  better  after  a  little 
ramble. 


THE    DAWSEYS DEATH    IN    THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE.  81 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening  and  the  sky  was  of  the  deepest 
azure.  Luoile  and  the  Dawsey  children,  on  their  way  to  the 
ginhouse,  came  near  dislocating  their  necks  trying  to  count 
the  crows  and  other  birds  soaring  across  the  cloudless  vault. 
Katie  followed  with  eager  eyes  one  of  the  birds,  which,  in  a  few 
seconds,  seemed  to  have  been  swallowed  up  in  the  upper  deep. 
"Oh!  Lucile!"  she  cried  in  great  excitement,  "one  of  them 
has  gone  to  heaven!     Don't  you  wish  you  could  go  too?" 

"Yea  indeed,  Katie,  I  should  like  to  go  that  way;  but 
people  must  die  before  the}'  can  go  to  heaven,  you  know." 

"Is  it  hard  to  die  Lucile?     Tell  me  about  it." 

"Don't  ask  me,  dear.  I  have  never  seen  anyone  die,  nor 
never  wish  to." 

Katie's  lovely  eyes  once  more  sought  the  blue  dome,  and 
her  sweet,  childish  face  grew  sober  trying  to  concentrate  her 
thoughts  on  a  subject  that  had  never  before  presented  itself  to 
her  mind. 

The  effort  extinguished,  as  it  were,  the  exuberance  of  her 
feelings  and  hushed  her  accustomed  prattle.  Lucile  observed 
the  change  that  had  come  over  her  little  pupil. 

"What  is  Katie  thinking  about  now,  I  wonder?" 

"Something  dreadful  hard,  Lucile;  about  how  people  get 
to  heaven." 

"Well,  you  need  not  rack  your  little  brain  doing  that, 
child;  you  are  too  young;  to  think  about  death." 

"What  is  death,  Lucile?"  asked  she,  fixing  her  expres- 
sive eyes  on  her  young  teacher. 

"0  Katie,  wlio  can  tell!  one  must  die  first  to  know.  It 
is  a  mystery  one  cannot  solve  in  this  life." 

"Well  then,  what  is  life?     I  want  to  know." 

"What  strange  questions  you  do  ask,"  cried  Lucile  im- 
patiently;  "I  am  not  smart  enough  to  know  such  things.  " 


82  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Ah!  little  Katie,  bad  Luc.ile  the  gift  of  prophecy,  she 
would  have  applied  to  3011  this  answer:  "It  is  even  as  a  vapor 
that  appeareth  for  a  little  time  and  then  vanishetii  away." 

The  children,  on  reaching  the  gate,  tumbled  through  the 
bars  and  scampered  across  the  lot  to  the  cotton  gin.  Then, 
there  was  a  general  rush  for  a  seat  on  the  lever.  Lucile  and 
her  companions  were  joined  by  little  Jimuiie  Dawsev,  who  sat 
astride  one  of  the  long  bfvnus  and  shouted  with  delight.  They 
amused  themselves  tumbling  each  other  off  aud  then  racing 
and  struggling  to  secure  their  seats  again. 

A  couple  of  mules  tugged  at  ea'^h  end  of  the  lever  by 
which  the  baud- wheel  was  propelled  and  the  gin  put  in  opera- 
tion. 

With  a  swaggering  gait,  Dick,  the  young  darkie,  followed 
the  mules,  cracking  his  rawhide  whip  and  making  himself 
hoarse  abusing  them.  He  threatened  and  shouted  and  discharged 
upon  them  a  continuous  volley  of  pent-up  wrath. 

"Wat  de  matter  will  you  now,  Dolly?  'Stid  ov  pullin', 
you  gwine  to  sleep,  hey?  I'll  let  you  know,  disye^e  no  time 
fur  to  shirk,  sur;  and  I  got  sumfin'  fur  to  wake  ycui  up,  I  is. 
You  Peet!  move  up  dere,  will  ye?  Wen  I  lay  dis  yere  hide 
on  yo'  back  you'll  step  roun'  little  more  lively." 

Poor  Dick  was  but  a  child  himself  with  human  frailties, 
and  he  cast  longing  looks  at  the  merry  band  disporting  around 
the  wheel.  Once,  he  stepped  aside  to  watch  them  at  leisure. 
His  steely  black  e3-es  glinted  beneath  their  dust-powdered 
lashes,  and  from  time  to  time,  he  stifled  his  hilarity  in  his  old 
coon-skin  cap.  But  he  was  soon  recalled  to  his  post  by  the 
angry  voice  of  his  master  ordering  him  to  "drive  up  the 
rnules."  Dick  cracked  his  whip  and  fell  once  more  into  his 
vociferous  monologues.  "De  minite  I  takes  my  eye  ofl!"  dese 
yere  mules,  dey  shirks.      Move  up  dere  Nancy!     Didyouebber 


THE    DAWSEYS DEATEI    IN    THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE.  83 

see  such  a  lot  befo'?  I  ain't  gwine  to  stand  (lis  much  longer, 
min'  ye.  I's  gettin'  mad,  I  is.  You  Peet!  I  sees  you.  Wen 
I  gi'  you  a  tace  of  dis  3'ere  rawhide,  you'll  mine  yo"  bizness,  I 
bet  you.     Git  up  dere!  git  up  dere,  mules!" 

With  a  whirring  sound  and  accelerating  speed,  the  great 
wheel  plunged  into  space,  and  the  low  humming  of  the  busy 
gin,  mingled  with  the  children's  prattle  and  laughter.  The 
slanting  rays  of  the  setting  sun  darted  across  the  circle  where 
they  were  at  play,  and  tipped  with  gold  a  cloud  of  whirling 
dust;  in  the  midst  of  it,  the  quivering  form  of  a  child  dropped 
under  the  ponderous  wheel. 

"0  Lord!"  cried  Lucile.  "Katie  has  passed  under  the 
wheel!"'  Running  up  to  her,  she  lifted  the  limp  body  from  the 
ground.  With  frantic  efforts,  Dick  contrived  to  check  his 
mules;  Mr.  Dawsey  and  the  hands  employed  at  the  gin  rushed 
to  the  spot.  All  was  confusion;  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  children's  cries  and  lamentations.  Lucile  trembled  like  an 
aspen  leaf  beneath  her  precious  burden,  which  lay  like  a  bruised 
flower  in  her  arms.  No  tear  escaped  her  eyelids;  no  cry  gave 
utterance  to  her  anguish.  The  wretched  father,  with  a  groan, 
fell  upon  his  knees  beside  her,  and  taking  up  the  tiny  hand 
which  lay  quivering  in  the  dust,  felt  the  failing  pulse.  "Don't 
move  her — for  God's  sake-  she's  d^ing!"  came  from  his  rigidly 
compressed  lips. 

Lucile  raised  her  colorless  face  and  glanced  at  his  horror- 
stricken  countenance;  her  own  courage  faltered,  and  it  was 
only  by  a  supreme  effort  that  she  overcame  the  strange  sensa- 
tions which  crept  through  her  frame  and  threatened  to  over- 
power h^r  The  head  of  the  sw  et  child  rested  upon  Luciie's 
arm;  a  stream  of  blood  trickled  slowly  from-  the  pale  lips.  She 
made  several  attempts  to  open  her  eyes,  but  her  lids,  heavy 
with  the  dew  ot   Death,  instantly  dropped  over  the  blue  orbs; 


84  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

spamodie  fits  frequently  shook  her  delicate  body.  These  in- 
dications of  the  child's  suffering  and  approaching  dissolution, 
pierced  with  anguish  the  hearts  of  those  who  witnessed  her 
agony.  In  her  intense  grief,  Lucile  bent  over  her  and  tried  to 
frame  a  prayer,  a  supplication  to  God  to  spare  the  life  of  her 
little  friend.  But  her  lips  were  parched,  and  she  found  it  im- 
possible to  divert  her  thoughts  from  the  palid  and  gasping 
figure  cradled  in  her  arms.  In  ihe  midst  of  her  vain  endeavors, 
she  became  sensible  of  a  sudden  relaxation  in  the  form  she 
clasped.  The  golden  head-fell  peacefully  upon  her  breast;  the 
pure  spirit  had  winged  its  flight,  and  Lucile,  for  the  first  time, 
looked  upon  Death. 

Frantic  with  grief  and  terror,  Mrs.  Dawsey  lifted  from 
Lucile's  lap,  the  body  of  her  beloved  child. 

"Oh!  my  darling,  is  this  you?"  she  cried,  wiping  with  the 
corner  of  her  apron  the  dust  an^  blood  which  disfigured  the 
once  beautiful  face.  "You  cannot  be  dead  my  precious!"  she 
cried,  clasping  the  child's  yet  warm  fingers  within  her  own  icy 
hand.  "God  could  never  be  so  oruel  to  me!"  She  then  felt 
for  the  pulseless  heart;  its  tearful  stillness  convinced  her  of 
the  awful  truth.  With  a  piercing  scream,  she  clasped  to  her 
bosom  the  pale  clay,  and  gave  vent  to  her  feelings  in  sharp  and 
agonizing  shrieks.  Her  husband  stood  for  a  moment,  leaning 
heavily  against  tiie  murderous  wheel.  Great  drops  of  perspi- 
ration oozed  from  his  temples;  every  faculty  of  his  being 
seemed  paralyzed.  His  eyes  wandered  around  to  where  his 
children  and  some  of  the  hands  were  huddled  together,  wailing 
and  sobbing;  then — they  rested  on  the  white,  stony  face  of  the 
brave  girl  who  still  sat  in  the  dust,  bathed  in  the  gore  of  his 
child.  lie  staggered  to  her  side  and  extending  his  hand  fo 
her,  said  in  a  husky  tone:  "Come."  The  sound  of  his  voice 
broke  the  spell  which  had  hitherto    kept  her  senses  in  thrall ; 


THE    DAWSEYS — DEATH    IN    THE    MIDST    OF    LIFE.  85 

she  started  to  her  feet  like  one  awakened  from  a  dream.  Mr. 
Dawsey  silently  led  her  from  the  scene  of  death  into  the  open 
air. 

In  the  rear  of  Mr,  Dawsey's  garden,  and  beyond  the  pal- 
ings, a  stately  ash  washed  its  roots  in  the  sluggish  water  of  a 
small  bayou.  A  portion  of  its  branches  overshadowed  a  weedy 
corner  of  the  garden ;  it  was  here,  they  dug  poor  Katie's  grave. 

When  they  laid  ier  little  coffin  down  upon  the  dried  grass, 
the  evening  winds  rustled  among  the  silvery  leaves  of  the  tree, 
and  scattered  them  into  her  open  grave.  Mr.  Hunt  who  was 
to  read  the  burial  service,  laid  a  handful  of  pure  white  roses 
upon  the  casket;  they  were  a  tribute  from  his  wife  to  the  child's 
sweet  memory.  Mrs.  Hunt  had  remained  with  Lucile,  who 
was  delirious  with  fever  and  from  the  shock  her  nervous  sys- 
tem had  sustained  the  day  before. 

No  voice  intoned  a  hymn,  no  bell  tolled  its  sorrow,  when 
Katie  was  laid  in  her  lonely  grave.  The  negroes  on  the  place 
came  up  softly  to  gaze  for  the  last  time,  upon  her  angelic 
face,  and  their  sturdy  frames  shook  with  sobs  of  gen  nine  grief, 
as  they  turned  away  from  the  little  form  stretched  like  a  mar- 
ble figure  on  the  parlor  table.  The  anguish  of  her  parents, 
the  tears  of  the  children  and  her  friends,  were  the  testimonials 
which  proclaimed  how  dear  to  all  was  the  lovely  one  thus 
snatched  from  earth  in  the  morning  of  her  life. 

"A  lovelier  flower,  on  earth,  was  never  sown." 

"Such  was  her  end,  a  calm  release, 

No  clinging  to  this  mortal  clod; 
She  closed  her  eyes  and  stood  iu  peace 

Before  a  smiling  God." 


86  ZULMA,     A    STORT    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


CHAPTEK  VIII. 

THE    DAWN    OP    A    NEW    LIFE. 

T^HE  moss-draped  forests  whicb,  for  some  ages,  had  cum- 
■■•  bered  the  earth,  and  overshadowed  the  banks  of  Grosse 
Tete,  rapidly  disappeared  beneath  the  leveling  axe  of  the  set- 
tler, and  the  waters  of  the  bayou,  went  dancing  in  the  sunlight, 
past  luxuriant  fields  and  substantial  bridges.  The  heavens 
were  no  longer  obscured  by  the  smoke  of  burning  canebrakes. 
The  creack  and  rumble  of  ox  teams,  instead  of  the  echoing 
thud  of  the  axe,  now  greeted  the  traveler's  ear.  Prosperity 
followed  in  the  wake  of  the^plow- share.  Every  arpent  of 
land,  from  the  Hunt  place  to  Fodorce,  was  now  under  cultiva- 
tion. Mr.  Davis,  the  stranger  whom  Lucile  had  befriended, 
returned  to  Grosse  Tete,  and  purchased  a  large  tract  of  land 
in  her  father's  neighborhood.  His  wife  and  children  were  cor- 
dially welcomed  by  his  former  hosts,  and  a  warm  friendship" 
was  soon  established  between  the  two  families.  Thus  Lucile 
and  her  mother  were  once  more  thrown  in  contact  with  people 
of  their  own  statiou  and  of  congenial  minds,  and  a  new  phase 
of  existence  dawned  upon  them.  Strange  to  say,  thej'  accepted 
the  transition  with  feelings  of  joy,  mingled  with  regret.  The  old 
life  had  been  one  of  tranquil  and  uninterrupted  happiness  to  the 
social  exiles.  The  circle  of  Lucile's  acquaintances  was  now  so 
much  enlarged  that  she  selected  among  the  number  a  friend  ac- 
cording to  her  own  heart.  Her  choice  fell  upon  Rosanna  Davis, 
She  was  older  than  Lucile,  but  possessed  a  gentle,  yielding 
disposition  which  exactly  suited  Lucile's  ardent  and  impulsive 
nature.      Herbert  Davis,  Rosanna's  eldest  brother,  was  a  hand- 


THE    DAWN    OF    A    NEW    LIFE.  87 

some,  promising  lad  a  year  older  than  Lucile.  His  father  was 
preparing  to  send  him  to  the  University  of  Mississippi,  then  a 
flourishing  institution,  greatly  patronized  by  Southern  planters. 
As  Lucile  herself  was  to  leave  home  for  school,  there  sprung 
up  between  them  sympathies  which  soon  ripened  into  friend- 
ship. From  her  earliest  childhood,  Lucile  had  been  constantly 
reminded  that  she  was  to  be  sent  to  the  Convent  to  complete 
her  education.  But  when  the  time  came  for  this  project  to  be 
put  in  execution,  she  gave  way  to  her  grief  and  manifested  a 
strong  disposition  to  resist  her  father's  wishes.  Her  mother, 
in  sympathizing  with  her,  added  desolation  to  the  scene.  Mr. 
Hunt  was  inflexible.  He  explained  to  Lucile  the  necessity  of 
attending  school,  in  order  to  educate  herself  in  music  and 
drawing,  both  of  which  she  was  anxious  to  learn.  He  reminded 
her  of  their  projected  visit  to  Virginia,  where  she  would  have 
the  opportunity  of  immortalizing  on  canvass,  the  mountain 
scenery  in  the  vicinity  of  his  home.  He  represented  besides, 
the  many  advantages  she  would  derive  from  other  studies 
which  neither  of  her  parents  were  prepared  to  teach  her.  His 
arguments,  combined  with  the  pain  she  felt  in  disappointing 
her  parents  at  last  prevailed,  and  she  submitted  to  their  decision 
without  further  remonstrance. 

"Do  not  mind  me,  papa,"  she  said  with  pitiful  resignation, 
"I  have  anticipated  this  ordeal  a  hundred  times  betore;  but  it 
is  all  over  now,  and  I  am  ready  to  go  whenever  you  wish  to 
send  me!" 

Lucile  received  from  her  grandmother  her  '■^covvert,''  an 
elegant  silver  cup  with  her  name  engraved  upon  it  in  a  wreath 
of  pansies.  Grandpere  sent  her  two  golden  eagles  for  her  pin 
money,  and  a  rose  wood  work-box,  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl. 
Old  Mr.  Narsis  came  over  with  a  bag  of  peanuts  '  'fur  Meez 
Lucie."     He  expatiated  on  the  fine  qualities  of  his  gift.     They 


88  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

were  '■'■w'ite  an'  clean,''  be  had  washed  them  himself  in  the 
bayou  and  dried  them  on  the  roof  of  his  corn  house.  She 
would  find  many  of  them  in  quartette  in  the  pods,  and  they 
were  as  sweet  as  almonds. 

"Dey  keep  you  mighty  long  time,  I  frade,  Meez  Lucie," 
he  said,  shaking  his  grey  locks.  "May  be,  w'en  you  come 
back,  you  fin'  ole  Narsis  dun  dead." 

"Oh!  you  must  not  say  that,"  exclaimed  Lucile,  in  an 
anxious  tone.      "■Nobody  must  die,  while  I  am  away." 

'■'■Dieu  est  le  maitre  ma  jftite,"  answered  the  old  man  with 
a  smile  full  of  sadness;  "an'  ole  Narsis,  he  dun  make  'is  time. 
He  was  dare  w'en  de  chevreuil  an'  de  Choctaw  Injuns  fill  de 
woods,  an'  w'en  de  peeps  on  Fausse  Keiver  eat  duck  an'  sar- 
celle  all  de  winta,  an'  salt'im  up  in  barrel." 

"That  must  have  been  a  good  time  for  the  hunters,  Mr. 
Narsis,"  observed  Lucile.   «- 

"Good  time  fer  all  de  peeps,  p'tite, "  he  answered,  rising 
and  extending  his  rough,  horny  hand  towards  her.  "Adieu, 
pauvre p'tite;  ban  voyage,  an'  don't  furgit  yo'  ole  fren'." 

He  passed  the  sleeve  of  his  old  blanket  coat  across  his 
eyes,  and  abruptly  left  the  room.  A  few  moments  later  the 
thud  of  his  oars  smote  the  ears  of  his  friends. 

"Poor  old  Mr.  Narsis, "  sighed  Lucile,  "I  hope  he's  "not 
going  to  die,  mamma." 

"Don't  borrow  trouble,  darling,"  answered  her  mother. 
"Try  always  to  look  upon  the  bright  side  of  life." 

"But — mamma,"  answered  Lucile,  bursting  into  tears; 
"there  is — no  bright  side  for  me  to  look  upon — now — that  I 
am  going  away  from  home!'' 

"Let  us  go  over  there,  to  the  new  house,"  said  Lucile  to 
Rosanna,  on  the  eve  of  her  departure  for  the  Convent.  "My 
heart  is  breaking,  and  I  must  have  a  cry  somewhere  out  of 
mamma's  sight." 


■      THE    DAWN    OF    A    NEW    LIFE.  89 

The  two  friends- 'silentl}' wended  their]  way  towards  the 
spot  indicated.  The  building  in  course  of  construction  stood 
on  a  high  point  of  land  formed  by  the  bend  of  the  bayou, 
which  I  once  said,  ran  back  of  the  house.  Mr.  Hunt  had 
named  it  "Back  Creek,''  in  remembrance  of  a  creek  which 
traversed  his  father's  estate,  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley.  The 
girls  stopped  on  their  way  to  examine  the  structure.  The 
carpenters  were  busy  at  work,  and  the  wind  came  whistling 
viciously  through  the  open  spaces  and  scaffolding.  They 
hastened  away  to  a  group  of  pecan  trees  at  the  edge  of  the 
bayou,  and  in  order  to  shield  themselves  from  the  cold  blasts 
which  assailed  them,  they  took  refuge  behind  a  pile  of  lumber 
where  they  ensconced  themselves  for  a  confidential  chat.  It 
was  a  cold,  gloomy  day  in  November,  and  the  two  friends 
watched  for  a  moment  the  sear  leaves  as  they  whirled  mourn- 
fully among  the  shavings,  covering  the  ground  then,  finally, 
heaped  themselves  together  ^'n  a  common  grave. 

"They  remind  me  of  children,"  sighed  Lucile,  "who  are 
torn  from  their  homes  to  be  tossed  about  in  the  world," 

"Don't  think  of  those  ligly,  dead  leaves,"  answered 
Rosanna,  "look  rather,  at  that  stately  building  over  there. 
When  you  return  in  August,  it  will  be  ready  to  receive  you; 
how  pleasant  it  will  be  to  live  in  so  lovely  a  home!  " 

"T  shall  not  love  it  half  as  much  as  that  dear,  old  cabin 
over  yonder,"  replied  she,  and  the  tears  welled  from  her  eyes. 

"You  may  think  so  now;  but  I  am  sure,  the  proudest  aud 
happiest  days  of  your  life  will  be  spent  on  this  very  spot." 

"My  happy  days  are  over!"  wailed  the  girl,  bursting  into 
tears. 

Rosanna  drew  her  within  her  arms. 

"You  said  you  had  come  for  a  cry,  aud  you  are  keeping 
3'our  word  with  a  vengeance.     You  will  Lave  me  crying  next," 


90  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OP   THE   OLD    SOUTH. 

She  spoke  in  a  choking  voice  and  furtively  wiped  the  tears 
which  fell  from  her  own  eyes.  "You  must  not  take  on  so, 
dearie,  it  does  you  no  good  and  grieves  your  parents.  It  is 
hard  enough  for  them  to  give  you  up,  without  addmg  to  their 
sorrow  by  acting  as  you  do.  You  must  have  some  considera- 
tion for  their  own  feelings,  dear  Lucile. ' ' 

"You  are  a  wise,  good  girl,  Rosanna, "  said  she,  passing 
her  arms  around  her  friend's  waist,  and  laying  her  head  against 
her  shoulder.  "I  am  going  to  be  reasonable  and  unselfish, 
even  if  I  die  in  the  attempt;  but  dear  Rosanna, "  here  Lucile 
broke  into  sobs,  "I  came  here  to  have  a  cry." 

After  Lucile  had  indulged  in  a  comfortable  fit  of  weeping, 
she  once  more  reverted  to  the  subject  nearest  to  her  heart. 
They  talked  until  Zulma  came  to  remind  them  of  the  inclem- 
ency of  the  weather,  until  then  ignored  by  both,  in  the  fervor 
of  their  last  tete  a  tete. 

It  was  Lucile's  last  evening  at  home. 

The  fire  on  the  hearth,  cracked  merrily,  as  if  to  cheer  and 
distract  the  little  group  sitting  within  the  radius  of  its  ruddy 
light.  Mr.  Hunt  held  a  paper  before  him  under  pretense  of 
reading.  Lucile  sat  in  her  rocker  diligently  employed  in  stitch- 
ing the  ribbons  on  a  couple  of  alpaca  aprons  required  in  her 
Convent  outfit.  She  made  superhuman  efforts  to  check  the 
tears,  which  from  time  to  time,  rolled  down  unbidden  upon  her 
work.  Even  in  her  extreme  sadness,  she  noticed  the  brilliancy 
of  light  and  color  scintiliating  from  the  limpid  drops  which  she 
repeatedly  shook  from  the  cloth.  Woman-like,  Mrs.  Hunt 
had  found  solace  in  completing  her  preparations  for  the  mor- 
row's journey.  Zulma  sat  on  a  low  stool  at  Lucile's  feet.  Since 
the  accident  at  the  bayou,  Mr.  Hunt  had  yielded  to  his  daughter 
all  authority  over  the  slave.  Her  103'alty  to  her  3'oung  mistress 
was  proof  of  the  lenity  of  her  rule.     Poor  Zulma  was  about  to 


THE    DAWN    OF    A    NEW    LIFE,  91 

undergo  her  first  trial.  In  the  generosity  of  her  heart,  she 
struggled  to  suppress  her  own  grief,  in  order  to  divert  Lucile's 
mind  from  the  morrow's  ordeal.  When  occasion  required,  she 
handed  to  her  mistress  the  scissors,  or  her  thread,  turning  on 
the  sly  to  wipe  away  the  tears  which  blurred  her  vision.  In 
spite  of  her  own  distress,  she  occasionally  contmued  to  make 
cheerful  remarks,  which  dissipated  for  a  time  the  signs  of  sor- 
row lingering  about  the  sweet  countenance  of  her  dear  little 
mistress. 

"I  'clare,  you  is  gwins  to  ride  in  one  ov  dem  fine  boats, 
Miss  Lucile. " 

"What  if  your  prediction  comes  true,  and  it  explodes 
whilst  we  are  on  board?'" 

"You  need'nt  'spect  dat,  chile;  dey  tell  me  dem  boats 
quit  bustin'  sense  I  lef !'" 

"And  how  does  it  happen,  I  wonder?"  asked  Lucile,  look- 
ing archly  into  Zulma's  anxious  face. 

"Well — I  yere— de  captin's  got  de  upper  'and  of  'em. 
Boats  amt  haf  as  obstropus  as  dey  useter  be;  dey  aint  haf  as 
wile." 

"I  am  glad  to  know  they  have  been  tamed." 
"I's  mighty  glad  too,  but  dey's  plenty  ov  'em   niver  'arm 
nobody,  little  mistis;  dere's  de  'Southeriu  Belle'  an'  de  'Capi- 
til'  and  de  'Quitman.'  " 

"We  are  going  on  a  boat  called  the  'Natchez.'  " 
"You  is?  I   dun  seed    de    Natchez;  she's  a    mighty  fine 
boat,  I  kin  tell  you;  an'  I  never  yeard  no  one   speak  agin  de 
Natchez,        I'm  sho'   she's  gwine  to  take  you   straight  to  de 
Convint. " 

"You  once  told  me  that  boats  were  very  treacherous  and 
exploded  without  giving  any  warning." 


92  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF   THE   OLD    SOUTH. 

«'0h,  dat  useter  be  dere  way  ov  doing  long  time  ago!"  re- 
plied Zulma,  gazing  abstractedly  in  a  mass  of  glowing  coals; 
'  'but  I  yeard  dey  got  de  upper  'and  ov  dem  now. " 

'  'I  wonder  if  Aunt  Polly  will  ever  get  the  upper  hand  of 
you,  Zulma?" 

''Go  way,  little  mistis;  I's  a  proud  nigger  you  see  me 
derp;  an,  I  aint  gwine  to  let  anybody  rule  me  'cept  it  be  you," 
she  whispered,  casting  a  side  glance  in  the  direction  where  sat 
her  master. 

"Zulma,  I  want  you  to  be  good  while  I  am  gone;  promise 
me." 

"I  can't  tell  you  no,  little-mistis;  befo'  de  Lawd,  I  prom- 
is'  you  to  hole  my  sass  in  till  you  come  back." 

"Very  well,  I  shall  depend  on  your  word." 


NEW    SCENES.  93 


CHAPTER  IX. 

NEW    SCENES. 

f~\^  reaching  the  suburbs  of  Waterloo,  Lucile  contemplated 
^-^  the  scene  around  her  with  eyes  expanding  with  curiosity. 
She  saw  in  the  hazy  distance,  an  outline  of  dark  blue  forests, 
which  her  papa  informed  her  marked  the  opposite  shore  of  the 
great  '  'Father  of  Waters, "  Everything  about  the  place,  seemed 
full  of  interest  to  her;  she  had  so  often  heard  Zulma  boast  of 
the  magnificence  of  the  town  and  its  superior  advantages  over 
Grosse  Tete.  Sure  enough,  there  were  the  houses — two  stories 
high,  though  sadly  lacking  in  the  splendor  ascribed  to  them ; 
many  were  in  need  of  a  coat  of  paint,  and  others  were  on  the 
high  road  to  decadence.  On  their  way  through  the  village, 
Lucile  recognized  a  nuqiber  of  ox  teams  from  Grosse  Tete. 
She  had  often  seen  them  before,  passing  along  the  bayou  with 
their  immense  loads  of  cotton  and  sugar.  Waterloo  was,  at 
that  time,  the  most  important  landing-place  in  the  parish.  All 
the  crops  from  the  back  country,  were  hauled  there  for  ship- 
ping, and  at  seasons  of  the  year,  the  boats  delivered  at  its 
landing,  the  freight  destined  for  the  flourishing  planters  of 
Grosse  Tete. 

'  'And  is  this  the  Mississippi  river?"  exclaimed  Lucile, 
standing  upon  the  levee  and  looking  intently  up  and  down  the 
mighty  stream,  which  tumbled  its  waters  at  her  feet — the 
river  discovered  by  DeSoto?  "How  well  I  remember  the  picture 
in  which  his  men  are  represented  plunging  his  body  into  the 
water!  I  don't  like  its  appearance,  mamma;  there's  nothing 
attractive  about  it." 


94  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH, 

"I  think  it  is  a  noble  looking  stream,"  replied  her  mother. 
"See  how  majestically  it  runs.  Those  immense  trees  drifting 
on  its  current  are  on  their  way  to  the  sea." 

"Oh!  mamma  it  maltes  me  afraid  to  watch  them;  they 
look  like  living  things  the  current  is  dragging  away." 

'•Do  not  waste  your  sympathy  upon  them,  darling,"  replied 
her  father,  "they  will  be  caught  before  they  reach  the  mouth 
of  the  river,  and  turned  into  firewood. " 

The  horizon  in  bo*^b  North  and  South  was  flecked  with 
smoke  rising  from  the  stacks  of  boats.  There  was  a  steamer 
in  sight,  but  so  far  away,  its  movement  was  imperceptible. 
As  Lucile  gazed  upon  the  boat,  she  recalled  an  event  of  her 
childhood,  her  fall  into  the  bayou  and  her  rescue.  She 
imagined  that  her  mother,  likewise,  was  retrospecting;  she 
glanced  furtively  into  her  face,  A  deep  crimson  overspread 
her  cheeks,  and  she  turned  abruptly  aside  to  hide  her  per- 
turbation. The  boat  was  now  approaching;  it  was  a  stern- 
wheel,  and  continued  to  hug  the  opposite  shore.  Lucile  could 
form  l)ut  a  faint  idea  of  its  details.  The  sun  was  then  dip- 
ping behind  a  bank  of  grey  clouds,  and  the  north  wind  blew 
cold  in  their  faces.  Mr.  Hunt  persuaded  his  wife  and  daughter 
to  return  to  the  housf>,  as  the  boat  in  which  they  were  to  travel 
was  not  due  until  nine  o'clock  that  night.  They  walked  back 
to  the  large  brick  building,  the  lower  story  of  which  served  as 
a  store  and  warehouse.  The  proprietor  invited  them  upstairs 
into  a  comfortable  parlor,  where  a  cheerful  fire  burned  in  the 
grate.  One  of  the  clerks  brought  them  a  plate  of  apples.  As 
they  had  taken  nothing  since  dinner,  the  fruit  was  eaten  with 
considerable  relish.  Lucile,  with  her  h<»ad  reclining  on  her 
mother's  knee,  had  just  dozed  off  into  a  confortable  nap,  when 
she  was  suddenly  aroused  by  the  loud  blowing  of  a  boat.  She 
started  to  her  feet,  her  mind  filled  with  vague   apprehensions. 


NEW    SCENES.  95 

At  the  same  moment,  her  father's  voice  was  heard  from  the 
staircase.  "Hurry  up  Elise,  put  ou  your  wraps,  the  boat  is 
coming." 

A  general  stir  was  perceptible  about  the  place.  Boys  of 
both  colors  were  running  towards  the  levee,  carrying  bundles 
and  lanterns;  negro  men  trundled  wheelbarrows  before  them; 
and  others  drove  carts  and  drays  through  the  breach  in  the 
levee.  There  was  hurry,  confusion,  loud  talking  and  indis- 
criminate remarks  among  the  crowd. 

"Dat  boat  ahead  of  time,  ain't  she?"  asked  one  of  the 
darkies  perched  upon  a  pile  of  cotton  bales. 

"She  is  dat,"  answered  another;  "but  she  know  she  got  a 
load  to  take  offer  dis  yere  landin'." 

"She  gwine  to  take  mos'  an  hour  to  load  up." 

"Law!  jis  look  at  dat  pile  of  lasses  barls. " 

"I  wish  one  of  dem  barls  would  take  a  notion  to  buss!" 
remarked  one  of  the  boys,  kicking  at  the  innocent  object  of  his 
spite. 

"I  rudder  see  de  hoat  blow  up." 

"Not  me,  I'd  be  skeered." 

"Yere  she  come!  look  atter  jes'  a  skimmin'!  She  mind 
me  of  'eaven." 

"You  nebber  been  dere,  Jim." 

"But  I'se  a  gwine  sum  dese  days." 

"Git  out!  dat's  all  de  'eaven  you  gwine  to  see;  white  folks 
ain't  gwine  to  let  you  in." 

"Ain't  she  a  blaizer!" 

On  reaching  the  levee ,  Lucile  beheld  before  her,  in  mid- 
stream, a  "real — live — boat."  The  spectacle  struck  her  dumb 
with  wonder  and  admiration.  She  gazed  in  rapture  upon  the 
magnificent  thing  moving  onward  in  a  blaze  of  light  and  beauty. 
How  inadequate  had  been  Zulma's  description  of  a  steamboat! 


96  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

From  bow  to  stern  the  craft  was  simply  superb — a  floating 
palace  radiant  in  the  light  which  streamed  from  a  long  array 
of  chandeliers.  With  spontaneous  grace,  she  turned  her  prow 
shoreward,  swaying  from  side  to  side  as  she  glided  on  the 
waters  with  swift  and  majestic  motions. 

"0  how  beautiful!"  cried  Lucile;  ''she is  like  an  enchanted 
palace,  floating  on  the  water." 

Suddenly,  there  was  a  clanging  of  bells;  the  boat,  with 
tremendous  heavings,  straightened  herself  and  began  to  dis- 
charge her  steam  with  deafening  uproar.  The  tall  chimneys 
belched  forth  clouds  of  black  smoke,  and  in  the  glare  of  the 
furnace  fires,  the  swarthy  crew  appeared  in  sight.  The  flames 
from  the  torch  baskets  flared  up  wildly,  flinging  out  a  shower 
of  sparks  which  fell  in  the  foaming  waves  below.  Above  the 
noise,  the  clatter  and  rumblings,  the  voice  of  the  mat^e  arose, 
harsh  and  predominent. 

"Hurry  up,  hurry  up  there — you  black  scoundrels! — pitch 
in  with  that  plank  will  you?  What  are  3'ou  waiting  for?  In- 
stead of  standing  there  losing  time,  why  don't  you  load  up  and 
be  ready  the  minute  the  boat  lands,  you  lazj' rascals?"  "Dou't 
you  see  that  pile  of  freight  there  tor  Waterloo?  Straighten 
that  stage  there  so  the  ladies  can  pass."  And  the  poor  devils 
actually  plunged  into  the  cold  mud,  dragging  after  them  the 
heavy  gang-plank.  Their  outlandish  outcries  added  to  the 
terror  of  the  scene.  Lucile  clung  to  her  father's  arm,  in  genu- 
ine fright.  To  her,  the  once  beautiful  boat,  had  been  trans- 
formed into  a  monster,  breathing  forth  fire  and  destruction, 
ready  to  overwhelm  them  in  a  direful  catastrophe.  She  glanced 
up  at  tlie  crowded  guards.  Oh!  heavens;  there  were  hundreds 
of  human  beings,  unconscious  of  the  disaster  which  awaited 
them.  These  were  the  reflections  which  transfixed  the  girl  to 
the    spot;  and   it    was   with    some  diflflculty    that    her   father 


NEW    SCENES.  97 

persuaded  her  to  descend  the  levee.  Mr.  Hunt  led  his  daugh- 
ter onto  the  forecastle,  past  the  heaving  engine,  up  the  reeking 
stairs  and  midway  into  the  ladies'  cabin,  before  she  raised  her 
eves  or  comprehended  the  situation.  On  glancing  up,  she  be- 
held for  the  first  time,  all  the  splendor  of  the  converging  vista 
which  opened  before  her — the  receding  cabin,  its  carvings, 
scrolls  and  golden  devices;  its  filigree  work  and  rich  paintings; 
the  handsome  furniture  and  the  carpets  upon  which  she  feared 
to  tread.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  magnificent  tunnel,  an  ele- 
gant mirror  reflected  the  lights  of  a  long  row  of  chandeliers, 
which  hung  resplendent  in  glittering  showers  of  glass  drops. 
From  her  tenderest  years,  Lucile  was  in  the  habit  of  elevating 
her  heart  to  God  in  every  emergency.  In  the  splendor  of  her 
surroundings,  her  thoughts  sped  like  arrows  to  the  mercy  seat 
with  a  half  muttered  petition  for  the  preservation  of  the  boat. 
Then,  a  feeling  of  peace  and  security  succeeded  the  anxieties 
which  had  assailed  her  on  coming  aboard,  and  she  gazed  with 
unsuppressed  delight  at  the  passengers  and  the  novel  scene 
around  her.  An  hour  later,  the  Hunt  family  sat  at  a  table 
spread  with  a  tempting  repast.  Lucile,  with  apparent  cheer- 
fulness, commented  on  her  late  experiences. 

"Have  I  been  a  disgrace  to  you,  dear  papa?"  she  asked,- 
looking  up  apprehensively  into  her  father's  face. 

"No,  darling,"  he  replied.  I  made  allowances  for  a  little 
girl  brought  up  in  the  woods,  you  know;  I  dare  say  you  will, 
in  a  short  time,  adapt  yourself  to  the  ways  of  civilized  life." 

Lucile  was  here  thrown  with  the  elite  of  Southern  society, 
and  she  witnessed  much  which  pleased  and  interested  her.  She 
was  charmed  with  the  listless  grace  and  fascinating  manners  of 
elegantly  gowned  women,  who  lounged  on  cushioned  seats,  dis- 
coursing on  topics  beyond  the  comprehension  of  her  unworldly 
and  untutored  mind.     In  their  midst,  a  bevy  of  lovely,  chil- 


98  ZULMA,   A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

dren  gamboled  over  the  gorgeous  carpet.  Pert  waiting  maids 
stood  at  the  stateroom  doors,  ready  to  obey  orders.  Black 
nurses  carried  about  precious  bits  of  humanity  half  smo  hered 
in  laces  and  flannels.  A  set  of  young  people  hovered  around 
the  piano  and  enlivened  the  scene  with  music  and  song.  It 
was  with  reluctance  that  Lucile  withdrew  from  the  brilliant 
salon  tor  the  I'etirement  of  her  stateroom.  The  novelty  of  her 
situation  had,  in  a  measure,  soothed  the  pain  which  gnawed  at 
her  heart.  But  in  darkness  and  solitude,  her  mind  once  more 
feverted  to  the  morrow's  trial,  and  she  lay  for  hours  pondering 
and  listening  to  the  uproar  of  waters  under  the  wheel;  to  the 
clanging  of  chains  and  the  throbbing  of  the  great  engine  be- 
low. A  few  hours  before  dawn,  fatigue  overpowered  her  be- 
wildered senses,  and  her  tearful  lashes  fell  heavily  and  perma- 
nently upon  her  pale  cheeks.  When  Lucile  and  her  parents 
took  their  seats  at  the  breakfast  table  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, she  surveyed  with  childish  curiosity  the  bright  array  of 
glass  and  silverware,  the  snowy  napery  and  exquisite  service 
which  decorated  the  board.  She  cast  a  quick,  significant 
glance  at  her  mother,  who  comprehended  instantly  the  purport 
of  the  message,  and  responded  by  the  same  telegraphy. 

"It  is  indeed,  beautiful!" 

She  then  ventured  to  examine  the  strange  faces  around 
her,  without  once  suspecting  that  slit  herself,  was  an  object  of 
interest  to  a  number  of  persons  at  the  table.  Her  sweet  face, 
her  frank  and  iniellectual  countenance,  and  above  all,  her  bird 
like  shyness,  were  subjects  of  comments  among  the  passengers. 
At  some  distance  opposite,  two  elderly  ladies  from  St.  Louis, 
sat  at  their  morning's  repast;  they  had  already  partaken  of  a 
hearty  breakfast  when  the  Hunt  family  made  their  appearance, 
and  the  attention  of  the  staid  couple  was  at  once  arrested.  The 
younger  of  the  two  leveled  her  glasses  and  stared  at  the  group. 


NEW    SCENES.  99 

she  remarked  to  her  com- 
panion. 

"I  5hould  think  so,"  responded  she,  scrutinizing  the  party 
referred  to;  "those  two  must  be  her  parents;  the  child  resem- 
bles her  mother,  only  she  has  her  father's  fine  ej^es. " 

"She  would  have  been  just  as  fortunate  bad  she  inherited 
those  of  her  mother — they  are  as^uminous  as  stars." 

"Upon  the  whole,  they  are  the  most  genteel  looking  peo- 
ple I  ever  met.      I  wonder  who  they  are?     Ask  Mr.  Thompson.  ' 

The  lady  with  the  eyeglasses  turned  to  the  gentleman  on 
the  left:  "Pray  excuse  me  for  interrupting  j'ou  sir,  but 
Margarite  and  I  are  really  curious  to  know  who  that  gentleman 
is  over  there — the  one  talking  to  the  little  girl  dressed  in  Blue?" 

"His  name  is  Hunt,"  replied  the  person  addressed. 

'  'But  who  is  he — a  congressman?" 

"What  puts  such  a  notion  into  your  head?"  asked  Mr. 
Thompson,  laughing. 

"Why,  because  he  has  such  a  distinguished  appearance — 
so  striking  and  ^comme  il  font,'  as  they  say  m  French." 

"Mr.  Hunt  is  a  planter  from  Pointe  Coupee;  those  two 
are  his  wife  and  daughter,"  explained  Mr.  Thompson. 

"A  planter!"  ejaculated  the  lady:  "who  would  have 
thought  so!" 

"My  dear  Madam,  one  would  think  you  underate  that 
class  of  people;  why  the  name  of  '■'■planter,"  especially  in 
Pointe  Coupee,  is,  I  may  sa}',  a  cognomen — -a  name  synonomus 
with  wealth,  culture  and  the  highest  social  standing.  Many  of 
these  planters  have  magnificent  estates,  keep  a  retinue  of  sev- 
vants  and  entertain  in  a  princely  style.  The  education  they 
give  to  their  children  is  never  complete  without  a  tour  through 
Europe.  Indeed,  they  are  personages  of  so  much  importance 
that  the  captains  of  steamboats  will  sometimes  delay  half  an 


100  ZULMA.     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

hour  at  a  landing  for  one  of  these  potentates  to  get  through 
with  his  dinner.  No  wonder;  some  of  them  ship  a  thousand 
bales  of  cotton  or  an  equal  number  of  hogsheads  of  sugar." 

The  ladies  e3'ed  with  increasing  interest  the  subjects  of 
their  discussion. 

"I  should  like  to  know,'  said  one  of  them,  "whether  this 
one  lives  in  a  mansion  and  dispenses  hospitality  in  the  style 
you  mentioned. '■ 

'I  am  under  the  impression, '  replied  her  neighbor,  "that 
Mr.  Hunt  is  a  man  of  wealth  and  position;  he  receives  a  great 
deal  of  attention  from  the  officers  of  the  boat. " 

'It  is  certainly  the  most  distinguished  looking  family  I 
have  ever  met,"  reiterated  the  lady,  rising  from  her  seat  and 
casting  a  lingering  glance  at  the  unsuspecting  objects  of  her 
admiration. 

Lucile  and  her  mother  formed  many  pleasant  acquaintances 
during  the  rest  of  their  journey  They  were  spending  their 
time  so  agreeal)ly,  that  the}'  beheld  with  regret,  the  termina- 
tion of  their  voyage.  The  boat's  loud  signal  for  the  Convent 
landing,  awakened  new  and  contiicting  emotions  in  the  bosom 
ot  the  sensitive  girl.  She  sto^d  with  her  mother  on  the  rear 
guards,  watching  with  heightened  color  for  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  Convent.  As  the  boat  swung  around  for  the  landing,  a 
distant  view  of  the  white  pile  emerged  in  graceful  and  har- 
monious outlines.  There  it  was  at  last — that  Convent  so  long 
and  strongly  associated  with  the  hopes  and  fears  of  her  child, 
hood.  It  loomed  grandly  before  them — a  seat  of  learning,  a 
sanctuary  of  virtue,  and  the  asylum  of  pure  souls.  How  pleas- 
ant it  would  have  been,  had  they  come  only  for  a  visit  to  this 
lovely  place!  She  was  so  well  acquainted  with  Convent  rules, 
she  had  heard  so  much  of  the  good  nuns  and  the  peaceful  lives 
the  inmates  led  within  those  white  walls.      But  the  sight  of  it 


t 


NEW    SCENES.  101 

reminded  her  of  the  separation  in  store  for  her,  and  her  bosom 
heaved  so  distressingly  that  she  clasped  her  hands  over  it  to 
still  the  pulsations  of  her  heart.  A  forest  of  trees,  stripped 
of  their  foliage,  formed  a  sumbre  background  and  brought  in 
relief  the  details  of  the  palatial  structure.  The  long  galleries 
and  clustered  columns  of  the  main  building,  formed  a  charm- 
ing combination  with  the  two  wings,  and  added  to  the  beauty 
and  majesty  of  that  peculiar  style  of  architecture.  The  mellow 
autumn  sun  gided  the  cross  which  surmounted  one  of  the 
wings  and  indicated  the  house  of  prayer.  A  magnificent  gar- 
den extended  from  the  marble  steps  to  the  white  fence.  Grace- 
ful walks  and  allej's  fnnged  with  privet  and  roses,  intersected 
the  parterre.  A  variety  of  tropical  plants  mingled  their  ver- 
dure with  the  cedar  and  oleander,  and  suggested  rambles  and 
pleasant  gatherings  beneath  their  classic  shades.  Two  shrines, 
like  miniature  gothic  temples,  lent  an  air  of  elegance  to  the 
grounds.  But  the  lovliness  of  this  statel}'  abode  contributed 
nothing  towards  cheering  the  heart  of  Lucile.  She  followed 
sadly  and  reluctantl}'  the  Convent  porter  who  conducted  visi- 
tors from  the  levee  to  the  stone  paved  entrance  leading  to  the 
Convent  parlors. 


102         ZUL^rA,  A  STORY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH. 


CHAPTER  X. 

FIRST     IMPRESSIONS. 

A  PORTIERE,  tall,  dark  and  cadaverous,  answered  Mr. 
■'*■  Hunt's  summons  at  the  bell.  Her  sombre  habit  and 
melancholly  aspect  awed  Lucile,  and  she  involuntarily  shrunk 
from  her  as  from  an  unearthly  apparition.  The  nun  gravely 
nodded  to  the  visitors  as  she  held  open  the  door  which  led  into 
the  vestibule.  After  cautiously  turning  the  key  in  the  lock, 
she  invited  them  to  enter  the  spacious  parlor. 

"Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  send  to  me  Mother  Alche- 
nar  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Hunt  of  the  sad-faced  portress. 

"Give  me  your  name,  please,"  she  asked  in  an  almost  in- 
audible voice. 

"Pardon  me,  I  was  once  a  pupil  here,  and  I  wish  to  sur- 
prise Mother  Alchenar. " 

The  mournful  eyes  gazed  with  awakened  curiosity  into 
the  speaker's  countenance;  for  an  instance  they  glowed  in 
their  sockets  like  stars  receding  into  space.  "I  do  not  re- 
member you,''  she  remarked  in  French.  "You  must  have 
been  here  before  I  entered;"  and  the  phantom-like  form 
softly  vanished  from  the  apartment. 

"What  a  ghostly  figure!"'  exclaimed  Mr.  Hunt,  seating 
himself  upon  one  of  the  stiff  sofas  lining  the  glossy  walls. 
"Do  all  the  nuns  assume  such  melancholy  airs?'' 

"Indeed,  no,"  replied  his  wife,  "they  are,  on  the  contrary, 
the  happiest  and  most  cheerful  looking   people  in  the   world." 

"Oh!  Mamma, "  cried  Lucile,  "I  do  hope  she  will  never 
be  my  teacher." 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS.  ''  I(l3 

"You  need  have  no  fears,  dear,  she  is  the  portiere,  you 
see,  and  has  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  attend  the  bell  and  saj' 
her  prayers.  ' 

"She  is  a  sort  of  St.  Peter,  then,"  suggested  the  child, 
looking  brightly  into  her  mothers  face. 

"Yes.  truly:  for  I  believe  all  pupils  of  the  Sacred  Heart 
are  candidates  for  heaven." 

In  the  course  of  the  session,  someone  related  to  Lucile 
the  history  of  the  sad-faced  religious.  .  Manj'  of  the  nuns  still 
remembered  Marie  Daquin,  a  young  girl,  tall  anil  lithesome, 
whose  black  e^es  sparkled  with  mischief  and  merriment. 
Even  during  the  study  hours,  her  teachers  found  it  difticult  to 
subdue  her  exuberant  spirits,  or  suppress  her  untimely  laugh- 
ter. Her  frolicsome  habits  and  lively  disposition  were  the 
causes  of  her  losing  many  a  coveted  prize,  and  of  being  de- 
spoiled of  the  honors  repeatedly  conferred  upon  her  more 
tractable  companions.  Notwithstandmg  her  waywardness, 
the  girl  was  intuitively  pious.  Kach  time  she  entered  the  con- 
fessional, her  handkerchief  was  bedewed  with  tears  of  repent- 
ance, shed  over  venial  faults,  and  each  recreation  found  her 
bending  over  her  slate,  expiating  trangressions  over  which 
she  had  abundantly  wept.  The  girls  were  shocked  and  scan- 
alized  when,  several  times,  she  announced  her  predilection  for 
the  religious  life. 

"Why,  Marie!"  they  would  exclaim,  "how  dare  you? 
You  are  not  even  a  'Ribbon!'"  alluding  to  a  class  of  girls 
who  wore  this  badge  of  honor.  Thus  reprimanded,  the  poor 
child  would  suppress  for  a  time,  the  aspirations  of  her  soul. 
She  left  the  convent  with  the  secret  hope  of  returning  shortly 
to  embrace  her  chosen  vocation.  But  on  her  arrival  home, 
she  found  her  father  suffering  from  some  insiduous  disease, 
which,   for  a  number  of  year,   had  been  undermining  his  con- 


104  ZULMA,     A   STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUT?[. 

stitution.  His  physicians  were  unable  to  relieve  him,  and  he 
was  reduced  to  a  condition  which  demanded  the  constant  at- 
tention of  his  wife  and  daughter.  The  health  of  the  former 
yielded  to  the  harrassing  fatigue  entailed  upon  her,  and  in 
time,  tended  to  develop  consumption,  a  hereditary  disease  in 
the  family.  Mr.  Daquins  death  occurred  seven  years  after 
his  daughter  had  left  the  convent.  During  his  long  and  dis- 
tressing illness,  she  had  nursed  him  with  tender  devotion,  and 
had  denied  herself  all  the  pleasures  congenial  to  persons  of 
her  age.  Immediately  after  her  father's  death,  a  burden  still 
heavier  fell  upon  her  shoulders.  She  saw  her  mother  perish- 
ing by  degrees  in  the  grip  of  another  hopeless  malady,  and 
during  fifteen  years  she  watched  her  mother's  sufferings  and 
administered  to  her  wants.  At  the  end  of  that  time  her  youth 
had  vanished;  and  with  it,  her  gracf^  of  form  and  the  lustre  of 
her  beauty.  She  was  now  left  free  to  follow  her  inclinations 
for  the  religious  life;  but  she  had  watched  so  long  by  the  bed- 
side ot  the  sick  and  dying,  and  had  become  so  accustomed  to 
her  cross,  that  she  seemed  to  linger  in  its  shadow.  Her 
former  desire  predominated,  however,  and  after  a  time  she  re- 
traced her  steps  to  the  home  of  her  happy  girlhood,  and  laid 
at  the  foot  of  the  altar,  her  broken  heart  and  withered  youth. 
And  thus  it  was,  that  time  had  failed  to  remove  the  traces 
which  years  of  unbroked  gloom  and  sorrow  had  imparted  to 
her  physiognomy. 

The  portress  had  not  been  tardy  in  delivering  her  message; 
the  ' '  Mistress  General  "  soon  appeared  at  the  threshold. 
Though  somewhat  advanced  in  years,  her  deportment  was  still 
strikingly  graceful  and  lady-like.  Her  sweet,  intellectual 
features  lighted  up  with  a  benevolent  smile,  as  she  advanced 
to  meet  the  strangers.  Mrs.  Hunt  hastened  to  her  and  warmly 
grasped  her  hand. 

"Mother  Alchenar,  do  you  not  know  me?"' 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS.  105 

The  gentle  nun  gazed  intently  into  the  upturned  face  be- 
fore her;  her  mind  reverted  to  memory's  gallery,  thickly 
crowded  with  girlish  faces,  and  a  passing  frown  ruffled  her 
serene  brow,  in  her  effort  to  single  out  a  particular  one  among 
them.  Inadvertently  she  glanced  to  where  Lucile  stood  watch- 
ing the  result  of  the  interview.  Something  m  the  girl's  ex- 
pression awakened  the  dormant  faculties  of  her  mind,  for  a 
sudden  flash  of  light  illuminated  her  countenance,  and  she 
exclaimed  with  joyful  readiness: 

"Why,  this  is  Elise  Lafitte!  " 

Clasping  warmly  to  her  bosom,  the  hands  of  her  former 
pupil,  she  imprinted  on  either  cheek  a  fervent,  religious 
caress. 

Too  full  of  emotion  for  utterance,  Mrs.  Hunt  gazec", 
through  her  tears,  into  those  clear,  lustrous  eyes  which  Time 
had  so  kindly  ignored. 

"  I  am  glad  you  recognized  me,  Mother,  even  though  it 
required  such  an  effort  on  your  part." 

' '  I  was-  not  prepared  for  the  personal  change  in  you,  my 
child;  Nevertheless,  1  can  read  your  character,  and  can  vouch 
for  its  integrity ;  although  you  have  been  in  conflict  with  the 
world,  it  has  not  spoiled  the  qualities  of  your  heart." 

"You  have  judged  me  rightly.  Mother,"  answered  Mrs. 
Hunt;  "now  that  I  find  m3'self  in  convent  walls  once  more, 
and  behold  your  familiar  face,  I  almost  imagine  myself  a 
pupil  again  under  the  sweet  influence  of  your  authority.  But 
see,"  continued  she,  turning  to  Lucile  and  beckoning  to  her, 
"I  have  brought  you  another  Elise  to  perpetuate  my  memory." 

Lucile  was  touched  by  the  warm  reception  tendered  her 
by  her  mother's  old  friend,  and  notwithstanding  her  timidity, 
she  found  herself  in  a  few  moments  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
the  good  nun.     Mr.  Hunt  was  equally  pleased  with  her;  he 


106  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

was  lost  in  admiration  of  her  candor,  her  good  sense  and  other 
noble  traits  of  character.  He  now  understood  how  the  natural 
qualifications  of  his  wife  had  been  so  admirably  developed  and 
perfected,  and  he  sincerely  trusted  that  the  same  benign  influ- 
ence would  be  exercised  over  the  mind  and  heart  of  his  darling 
child. 

The  party  sat  for  an  hour,  conversing  pleasantly,  on 
topics  both  worldly  and  conventual.  Mother  Alchenar  had 
much  to  relate  of  the  changes  which  had  taken  place,  and  tlie 
events  which  had  transpired  at  the  convent  since  Mrs.  Hunts 
pupilage.  The  superioress,  she  knew,  had  ended  her  career 
of  usefulness  and  piety,  and  a  nun  of  Irish  descent,  by  the 
name  of  Shannon  had  replaced  her. 

"If  you  will  excuse  me  for  a  moment,"  said  the  amiable 
religion?,  rising  from  her  seat,  ' '  1  shall  make  you  acquainted 
with  our  Eev.  Mother.  ' 

Our  friends  were  struck  with  the  air  of  stateliness  which 
distinguished  this  illustrious  personage.  Her  brow,  full  of 
thought  and  purpose,  indicated  the  leading  spirit  of  that  com- 
munity. But,  notwithstanding  her  innate  consciousness  of 
superiority,  her  steel  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  animation,  and  a 
genial  smile  lighted  up  her  rubicund  face.  There  was  m  her 
tenaperament  a  childish  faculty  for  mirth,  and  a  spontaneity 
of  humor  which  rendered  her  a  very  entertaining  companion. 
Lucile  listened  with  interest  to  her  wise  and  salient  conversa- 
tion; the  recluse's  familiarity  with  subjects  of  worldly  and 
political  import,  astonished  her  and  increased  her  admiration 
and  respect.  Mother  Shannon  had  taken  her  by  the  hand  and 
kindly  questioned  her  about  her  studies  and  home  life;  yet, 
Lucile  stood  in  awe  of  one  in  whom  were  combined  authority 
and  such  brilliant  qualities  of  the  mind;  she  preferred  the  gen- 
tle and  sweet-tempered    Mistress-General.      Her  refined  man- 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS.  107 

ners,  her  cordiality  and  motherly  ways  had,  from  the  first, 
won  her  heart.  She  longed  to  throw  her  impulsive  arms 
around  her  neck  and  implore  her  for  the  love  and  interest  she 
once  bestowed  upon  her  mother.  But  she  dared  not  trust  to 
the  feelings  of  her  own  heart,  which  threatened  at  every  mo- 
ment to  overcome  her.  Lucile  was  greatly  surprised  when 
the  grave  and  portly  Mother  Shannon  offered  to  accompany 
them  on  a  tour  of  inspection  through  the  building;  this  seemed 
to  her  a  condescension.  In  a  hall  of  interminable  length,  they 
met  the  portress,  who  passed  them  without  the  faintest  sign 
of  recognition.  She  walked  rapidly  by,  her  mournful  visage 
almost  hugging  the  walls.  Her  black  veil  fluttered  in  the 
breezy  passage,  like  the  shroud  of  a  phantom  ship,  gliding 
silently  in  a  gale. 

One  class-room  after  another  revealed  its  ranks  of  rosy- 
cheeked  girls  who,  upon  the  entrance  of  the  visitors,  arose 
from  their  seats  and  displayed  their  smiling  countenances. 
Then  visits  were  made  to  the  neat  and  airy  dormitories,  each 
of  which  is  dedicated  to  some  particular  saint,  represented  in 
painting  or  statuary.  Wherever  they  passed,  the  floors  shone 
like  alabaster,  and  the  most  scrupulous  order  prevailed.  The 
tables  in  the  vast  refectory  had  been  set  for  supper;  an  array 
of  two  hundred  silver  goblets  enumerated  the  pupils  enrolled. 
This  was  a  familiar  scene  to  Mrs.  Hunt;  but  it  was  a  vexed 
question  to  Lucile,  by  ichat  means  a  repast  could  be  prepared 
for  such  a  number,  and  from  what  source  such  an  abundance 
could  be  derived.  It  did  not  require  much  time  for  her  to  in- 
vestigate the  matter.  Many  were  her  surreptitious  visits  to 
the  convent  kitchen,  where  she  stood  before  a  monster  range 
and  watched  in  wonder,  the  greatness  of  its  capacities.  A 
dozen  lay  sisters  assisted  the  chief  cool- — a  merry-hearted  fel- 
low, who  made   the  place  ring  with  anthems.     The  slave  pos- 


108  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

sessed  a  voice  of  extraordinary  compass  and  melody,  and  sang 
with  enthusiasm,  ail  the  masses  and  chants  he  had  heard  in 
the  convent  chapel.  Whether  at  the  glowing  fui-nace,  or  out 
in  the  open  air  preparing  fruits  and  vegetables  for  dinner, 
his  features  shone  wilh  cheer,  and  the  joy  fulness  of  his  heart 
found  vent  in  ceaseless  song.  On  hearing  his  vocal  manojuvres 
one  would  be  tempted  to  think  that  a  priest  and  full  choir  were 
holding  solemn  service  in  the  culinary  department.  Strange 
to  say  the  sisters  never  interfered  with  this  peculiar  flow  of 
spirits  nor  protested  against  it,  but  moved  about  in  silent  oc- 
cupation, unmindful  of  the  mimic  singer. 

Lucile  would  often  take  a  peep  into  the  marble-floored 
dairy,  where  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  rich  milk,  cream, 
cheese  and  butter,  filled  the  air  with  lacteal  fragrance. 

And  there  was  the  cool,  sweet-scented  pantry,  with  its 
clean  cypress  shelves,  freighted  with  well-replenished  crocks, 
jars  and  glasses.  Red-cheeked  apples  and  odorous  oranges 
lay  in  tempting  rows  for  ready  and  wholesome  desserts.  With 
a  knowledge  of  the  resources  on  hand,  Lucile  ceased  to  wonder 
at  the  abundance  daily  provided  at  the  meals.  The  visitors 
found  but  one  patient  in  the  infirmary — a  pretty  and  delicate 
looking  child  of  eight.  She  sat  in  a  tiny  rocking  chair,  turn- 
ing with  listless  grace  the  leaves  of  a  picture-book.  On  a 
gaudily  painted  waiter  near  her,  was  a  plate  containing  a  lunch 
of  amber-colored  preserves  and  crackers;  from  all  appearance, 
the  dainty  sweet  had  failed  to  tempt  the  invalid's  appetite. 
On  the  entrance  of  the  strangers,  she  arose  to  make  her  little 
courtesy;  a  few  stray  curls  fell  caressingly  upon  her  brow;  she 
looked  so  sweet,  so  sad  and  interesting;  she  seemed  so  young 
to  be  sent  away  from  home,  that  Mrs.  Hunt's  maternal  sym- 
pathies were  touched.  She  could  not  resist  the  impulse  of 
going  to  the  child  and  kissing  her.  Lucile  followed  her  moth- 
er's example. 


FIRST    IMPRESSIONS.  109 

"What  is  your  name?  "  asked  Mrs.  Hunt,  carressing  the 
delicate  hand  which  lay  passively  in  one  of  hers. 

"Ada  St.  Armand,'"  responded  she.  in  a  sweet  creoIe 
accent. 

"Ada  is  such  a  pretty  name!  My  little  girl  here,  is  called 
Lucile.      I  hope  you  two  will  become  great  friends." 

Ada  looked  up  with  a  frank  smile  into  Lucile's  face,  and 
placing  her  hand  on  her  arm,  asked  in  an  earnest  tone:  "  Will 
you  stay  with  me,  Lucile?" 

"She  is  an  orphan,"  explained  Mother  Shannon,  on  leav- 
ing the  inflrmary.  ' '  Both  of  her  parents  died  of  the  heart 
disease.  Immediately  after  her  mother's  death  she  was  sent 
to  us  by  an  uncle,  who  himself  packed  up  her  trunk,  in  which, 
by  the  way,  were  man}-  of  her  poor  mother's  clothes.  The 
child  has  undoubtedly  inherited  the  fatal  malady  of  her  par- 
ents. She  is  in  wretched  health  and  must  be  treated  like  an 
exotic." 

The  knowledge  of  Ada's  sad  history  augmented  Mrs. 
Hunt's  interest  and  sympathy  in  her  behalf. 

On  her  visit  to  the  beautiful  convent  chapel,  Mrs.  Hunt 
knelt  at  the  altar  railing,  where  oft,  in  her  girlhood,  she  had 
said  her  prayers  and  watched  the  glimmer  of  the  sanctuary 
lamp.  She  now  asked  for  strength  to  overcome  the  loneliness 
of  heart,  wliich  she  knew  awaited  heron  her  return  home  with- 
out that  dear  companion,  who  for  twelve  j^ears  had  been  her 
joy  and  solace.  From  the  chapel  they  descended  into  the  ex- 
tensive jmrterre  and  grounds,  where  shrubs  of  every  variety, 
and  the  lovliest  of  autumnal  flowers  filled  the  air  with  their 
spicy  odors.  They  came  to  a  corner  in  a  southern  exposure 
of  tlie  garden,  where  one  of  the  sisters  was  at  work  among 
cold  frames,  sheltered  by  a  group  of  orange  ttees,  then  loaded 


110         ZULMA,  A  STORY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH. 

with  fruit.  -'Sister  Josephine,"  said  the  Mother  Superior, 
"give  our  friends  some  of  your  oranges." 

The  owner  of  the  tropical  orchard  prided  herself  on  the 
size,  sweetness  and  excellence  of  its  productions. 

"£"«  rVa  de  hcUes,'"  she  made  answer,  opening  a  large 
basket  which  lay  on  the  turf  beside  her.  "  ./e  les  avais  con- 
seroees  pour  F injirnwrip. 

Mrs.  Hunt  protested  against  accepting  what  had  been 
destined  for  the  sick.  Sister  Josephine  assured  her  with  much 
earnestness,  that  she  had  ouly  gathered  the  over-ripe,  and 
that  the  season  was  so  far  advanced,  she  would  be  compelled 
in  a  few  days  to  despoil  the  trees  of  the  rest  of  their  treasures. 
At  this  moment,  the  stroke  of  a  great  bell  floated  in  the  air 
and  announced  the  vesper  hour.  The  last  glow  of  the  evening 
light  wa3  expiring  over  the  arched  roofs  of  the  garden  sanctu- 
aries. All  the  unoccupied  nuns  were  to  retire  to  the  chapel, 
where  they  read,  in  sad  monotones,  certain  Psalms  arranged 
for  vespers.  When  the  last,  solemn  tones  vibrated  in  the  still 
atmosphere,  Mrs.  Hunt  turned  to  Lucile.  "Good-night,  dar- 
ling," she  said  in  a  voice  which  shook  with  suppressed  emotion. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  Lucile  was  to  be  separated 
from  her  mother.  She  burst  into  an  uncontrolable  fit  of 
weeping. 

"We  shall  see  you  again  to-morrow,  my  pet;  we  are  only 
going  over  there  to  the  boarding  house,  "  said  Mr.  Hunt,  re- 
,  moving  her  hands  from  her  face  that  he  might  kiss  her. 

"0,  papa!  do  let  me  go  with  you,"  pleaded  she,  wiping 
with  desperation  the  tears,  which  flowed  in  streams,  from  her 
flushed  cheeks. 

"No,"  answered  her  father  with  firmness;  "it  is  best  that 
you  remain  here  to-night.  It  will  not  be  so  painful,  my  love, 
knowing  you  will  see  ub  again  in  the  morning  " 


FIRST    IMPRESSIOXS.  Ill 

"Foolish  child!  "  said  Mother  Alchenar,"  taking  Lucile 
by  the  hand.  "Come  with  me;  by  morning  you  will  be  so 
pleased  with  us,  nothing  will  persuade  you  to  leave  the  convent 
again." 

The  assertion  brought  an  incredulous  smile  to  the  girl's 
lips.  However,  she  permitted  herself  to  be  led  as  far  as  the 
chapel  entrance.  On  reaching  the  top  of  the  marble  steps, 
she  turned  suddenly  in  the  direction  taken  by  her  parents. 
"O,  papa!'"  she  cried,  in  a  despairing  tone,  "you  mean  to 
deceive  me;  I  will  not  see  5'ou  again  in  the  morning."  Her 
pretty  summer  hat  had  fallen  back  upon  her  shoulders,  throw- 
ing in  relief  her  sweet,  pathetic  face. 

Mr.  Hunt  paused  and  glanced  at  her — his  only  child — who 
from  ber  babyhood  had  been  his  constant  companion  on  the 
lone  plantation  in  the  woods  of  Grosse  Tete.  The  thought 
smote  him  keenly;  for  a  moment  he  wavered  in  his  purpose; 
then,  steeling  his  heart  against  emotion,  and  assuming  an  air 
of  gayety,  he  gallantly  waved  his  hand  to  her,  saying,  "  I  give 
you  my  word,  darling!  " 

This  was  sufficient;  Lucile  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of 
ber  father's  promise  and  re-entered  the  chapel. 


112  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

INITIATION. 

l\/\  OTHER  ALCHENAR  conducted  Lucile  through  the  long, 
»  '  *  gloomv  corridors  to  one  of  those  spacious  class-rooms, 
numerically  divided  into  "cones." 

"Wait  here,  for  a  few  minutes,  my  child,"  she  said,  on 
leaving  her  charge.  <  'I  am  sure,  you  will  not  feel  lost  among 
so  many  girls." 

In  fact,  Lucile  found  herself  surrounded  by  an  astonish- 
ing number  of  young  ladies,  all  seated  at  their  desks,  busily 
writing  their  French  exercises.  The  appearance  of  the  "new 
comer"  was  a  most  welcome  distraction  to  most  of  the  girls, 
for,  notwithstanding  the  vigilance  of  an  aged  nun  who  walked 
the  floor,  they  augmented  her  discomfort  by  whispering  to  each 
other  and  then  staring  her  out  of  countenance.  The  poor 
child,  who  had  never  met  with  such  rudeness  before,  felt  her- 
self in  a  most  uncomfortable  predicament,  and  a  feeling  of 
loneliness  seemed  about  overpowering  her  soul  when  the  door 
opened  and  there  entered  the  sweetest-faced  creature  she  had 
overlooked  upon.  Hers  was  not  the  beauty  of  grace  and  form 
onl}',  but  of  a  loveliness  of  expression  which  radiated  from  a 
pure  and  sympathetic  heart.  Even  beneath  her  homely  garb, 
the  faultless  outlines  of  her  figure  were  conspicuous,  and  her 
movements,  though  vivacious,  were  lull  of  charm  and  grace. 
The  caineo-like  beauty  of  her  face  was  lit  up  with  a  smile 
which  seemed  to  harmonize  with  her  exquisitely  chiseled  lips 
and  the  brightness  of  her  eyes.  This  fascinating  nun  walked 
softly  and  daintily  across  the  apartment,  and  seated  herself  on 
the  bench  beside  Lucile. 


INITIATION.  113 

"Would  you  not  like  to  come  and  stay  with  me  at  the 
'Little  Pensionnat?'  "  she  asked,  taking  Lucile  by  the  hand. 

"I  should  like  it  ever  so  much,"  replied  the  child, 
promptly,  though  she  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  the  location 
of  that  Utopian  Pensionnat. 

"Mother  Alchenar  tells  me  that  you  are  twelve  years  of 
age;  you  will  be  the  eldest  of  my  little  girls;  but  I  shall  expect 
you  to  give  them  good  example.  May  I  depend  on  your  good 
conduct,  Lucile?" 

The  consciousness  of  her  imperfections,  struck  the  sensi- 
tive girl  with  palpable  force,  and  she  asked: 

"Are  your  little  girls  extraordinarily  good?" 

"Well,  as  good  as  might  be  expected  of  well-bred 
children." 

•'Then  give  me  a  trial.  I  shall  make  no  promises, 
though — because — I  think  I  have  been" — here  there  was  a 
little  break  down  in  Lucile's  voice — "  Papa  and  Mamma  have 
always  allowed  me  to  have  my  own  way." 

"  Indeed!"  ejaculated  the  pretty  nun,  arching  her  pen- 
ciled eye-brows,  "  but  you  do  not  expect  to  be  that  much  in- 
dulged here?     You  will  have  to  submit  to  the  convent  rules." 

"O,  I  intend  to  do  that!"  answered  Lucile,  with  warmth, 
"only  I  cannot  promise  you  to  be  perfect.      You  may  try  me." 

Lucile  passed  an  exceptional  examination  and,  much  to 
the  annoyance  of  a  set  of  older  girls,  she  was  promoted  to  the 
senior  clas,ses,  in  both  English  and  French.  Her  childish  ap- 
pearance belied  her  age,  and  the  progress  she  had  attained  in 
her  studies  was  a  rebuke  to  her  class-mates,  and,  for  a  time, 
was  the  cause  of  envious  and  unfriendly  feelings  towards  her. 
But  the  sweet  and  amiable  disposition  of  their  innocent  rival, 
her  artless  ways  and  the  unconsciousness  of  her  own  merits, 
soon  divested  them  of  their  foolish  pride  and  all-unworthy  sen- 
timBnts. 


114  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Lucile  possessed  a  natural  talent  for  drawing;  at  home 
she  had  a  portfolio  full  of  crude  but  meritorious  sketches; 
most  of  these  were  tame  and  insignificant  bits  of  scenery, 
which  her  facile  brush  had  clothed  in  artistic  beauty.  One  of 
her  drawings  represented  a  log-cabin,  with  its  accessories,  the 
wood-pile,  the  rail  fence  and  rustic  stile.  The  smoke  curling 
from  the  mud  chimney  and  dissipating  itself  among  the  etched 
branches  of  leafless  trees,  was  delineated  with  art  and  del  - 
icacy  worthy  of  an  adept.  Another,  still  more  characteristic, 
was  the  trunk  of  a  lofty  cypress,  clasped  in  the  deadly  embrace 
of  the  poison  oak.  The  white  form  of  a  solitary  crane, 
perched  upon  its  apex,  contrasted  wierdl}'  with  a  mass  of 
billowy  clouds  piled  as  a  back-ground. 

Lucile  did  not  confine  her  talent  to  landscapes  alone,  she 
displayed  much  skill  in  drnwing  figures,  especially  dramatic 
scenes  from  ancient  history.  Though  lacking  in  necessary 
traits,  Zulma  posed  for  her  models — even  for  celebrities  like 
Cleopatra  and  the  Queen  of  Sheba.  On  such  occasions  her 
young  mistress  fell  upon  her  (nvu  resources  to  supply  de- 
ficiences,  so  sadly  wanting  in    her  patient  but  unlovely  model. 

A  week  after  Luciles  arrival,  Madam  Doremus,  the  gen- 
tle mistress  of  the  little  Pensionnat,  brought  her  to  the  studio 
that  she  miglit  begin  drawing  lessons.  A  sco''e  of  large  girls 
occupied  seats  around  a  broad  table;  they  seemed  pleasantl}' 
employed  in  congenial  tasks.  Drawing  lessons  were  given  at 
the  noon  recreation,  consequently  a  rigid  discipline  was  not 
enforced  in  this  department.  Whilst  at  work,  the  teacher 
permitted  her  pupils  to  exchange  ideas  relative  to  their  studies, 
and  even  allowed  their  conversation  to  drift  into  harmless 
convent  gossip.  Therefore,  when  Lucile  entered  the  class- 
room, she  was  confronted  by  a  battery  of  beaming  counten- 
ances and  greeted  by  the  following  harassing  exclamations: 


INITIATION.  115 

"Why,  theres  Lucile!" 

"  Not  to  begin  drawing  lessons,  surely?" 

"  Be  off  child,  you  are  already  too  precoctious  for  one  of 
your  age." 

"  The  idea  of  such  a  little  thing  taking  drawing  lessons!" 

(To  their  teacher) — "Madam,  we  young  ladies  prote'st 
against  such  an  imposition." 

"Madame  Doremus,  can't  you  provide  dolls  for  the 
amusement  of  your  babies  during  recess?" 

Poor  Lucile  was  at  loss  how  to  take  this  reception.  Were 
the  girls  taunting  her,  or  merely  jesting?  Her  changing  color 
betrayed  her  annoyance,  but  she  controlled  her  feelings  and 
kept  in  good  humor.  She  was  reassured  by  the  sight  of  the 
teacher  who  stood  at  the  end  of  the  long  table  sharpening  a 
crayon  for  one  of  her  scholars.  To  her  joy,  she  proved  to  be 
her  own  kind  teacher  of  the  second  English  class. 

Madame  Toury  was  one  of  those  sterling  characters  that 
undesignedly  inspire  confidence.  Her  clear,  blue  eyes,  f uU  qf 
cheer  and  animation,  reflected  the  goodness  of  her  heart;  and 
her  magnificent  forehead,  white  and  smooth  as  parian  marble, 
denoted  firmness  and  extraordinary  intelligence.  She  was  of 
a  medium  size,  but  carried  her  head  with  an  air  of  imperious- 
ness,  strangely  at  variance  with  her  general  appearance,  or  the 
benevolence  of  her  disposition. 

"Oh!  is  this  my  little  '  Pussy  Cat?'  "  she  exclaimed,  lay- 
ing down  her  pen-kuife  and  coming  up  to  Lucile,  "you  did 
not  tell  me  you  were  to  learn  drawing;  have  you  taken  lessons 
before?" 

"No,  ma'am,  but  T  have  tried  to  sketch,  and  have  made 
a  great  many  pictures,  already." 

"  On  your  slate,"  stlggGBted  one  of  the  girls. 


116  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"Indeed,  no, "  replied  Lucile,  "Papa  gave  me  the  best 
of  drawing  paper  and  a  box  of  paints,  besides." 

There  was  a  perceptible  titter. 

"  You  think  yourself  .so  smart!  "  replied  one  of  the  girls, 
leaning  back  on  her  chair  and  fixing  her  eyes  on  Lucile. 
"'Tis  a  pity  you  did  not  bring  your  chef  d'oetivre  for  exhibi- 
tion! " 

Here  Lucile's  powers  of  endurance  threatened  to  forsake 
her;  she  turned  aside  to  hide  the  tears  which  suflfused  her 
eyes. 

Madame  Toury  cast  on  the  class  a  glance  which  none  of 
them  failed  to  interpret,  and  they  silently  fell  to  work.  She 
then  prepared  a  seat  for  Lucile,  and  kindly  endeavored  to  dis- 
tract her  mind  from  unpleasant  thoughts. 

"What  shall  I  give  you  for  a  model?"  she  said,  taking 
up  a  large  portfolio.  "  Come  and  look  over  these  sketches. 
Here  is  a  cute  one — the  head  of  a  pussy  cat.  How  cunning! 
Should  you  not  like  to  try  your  hand  on  this?  it  is  not  hard  to 
draw." 

"Anything  you  choose  will  suit  me,"  replied  Lucile,  tak- 
ing up  the  model,  "I  think  this  very  pretty  and  easy." 

After  Lucile  had  been  installed  and  had  received  instruc- 
tions how  to  proceed  in  tlie  work  allotted  to  her,  Madame 
Toury  walked  across  the  room  to  attend  to  the  wants  of  the 
rest  of  her  class.  The  child  applied  herself  with  such  dili- 
gence and  expedition,  that  the  masterful  strokes  of  her  crayon 
on  the  rough  paper  attracted  the  attention  of  her  teacher,  who, 
more  than  once,  turned  in  wondering  surprise  in  the  direction 
whence  they  proceeded.  B'ut  she  forbore  disturbing  her  inter- 
esting pupil,  though  it  cost  her  an  effort  to  curb  her  curiosity 
and  impatience  to  examine  the  result  of  progress  made  under 


INITIATION.  117 

such  headway.      At  hist  Lucile  heaved  a  little   sigh  and  laid 

down  her  pencil. 

"Madame,  I  have  finished,"  she  said.  "Will  you  come 
and  see  whether  it  is  well  done,  or  shall  I  bring  it  to  you?  " 

Her  teacher  walked  to  the  desk;  she  stood  for  a  moment 
like  one  struck  dumb  with  surprise. 

"Dear  child!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  are  a  born  artist! 
Why,  your  sketch  is  as  good  as  the  model!  you  have  even  im- 
proved upon  it!  " 

"May  we   come    and  see?  do,  Madame  Toury,"  pleaded 

several  voices  in  a  chorus. 

The  sketch  was  handed  around  for  inspection.  To  the 
teacher's  surprise  and  pleasure,  there  was  no  trace  either  of 
envy,  or  of  ill-feeling  in  the  eulogies  bestowed  by  the  girls;  all 
expressed  their  admiration  and  agreed  that  Lucile  deserved  a 
premium  for  her  cleverness. 

"Now,  Lucile,"  said  Madame  Toury,  "you  will  not  have 
time  to  begin  work  on  another  sketch,  but  you  may  choose  a 
model  for  your  next  lesson.  Here  is  a  landscape,  the  picture 
of  an  old  mill  with  the  water  tumbling  merrily  over  the  wheel. 
I  am  afraid  it  is  too  difficult;  this  oae  is  prettier." 

She  placed  before  Lucile  a  small  landscape — that  of  a 
rustic  bridge  spanning  a  stream  of  water.  Tall  trees  on  opposite 
banks,  leaned  across  and  overshadowed  the  bridge;  a  wild  vine 
clambered  to  the  topmost  boughs  and  returned  earthward  in 
graceful  and  airy  tendrils.  Lucile  scrutinized  the  drawing  in 
silence ;  presently  her  red  lips  began  to  quiver  and  two  opal- 
escent tears  rolled  from  her  cheeks  upon  the  paper  before  her. 
At  the  sight  of  her  emotion.  Madame  Toury  hastily  removed 
the  offending  sketch  from  the  desk. 

"Now,  now,  child,  you  are  not  compelled  to  work  on 
this;  I  should  have  known  it  was  too  hard  for  such  a  little 
pussy  as  yourself." 


118  ZULMA,   A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Lucile  tried  valiantly  to  overcome  her  weakness,  but  the 
bridge  and  its  rural  surroundings,  had  carried  her  back  to 
dear,  old  Grosse  Tete  and  to  that  sylvan  spot,  the  summer  re- 
sort of  herself  and  parents,  in  the  happy  days  of  yore.  It 
was  here,  too,  that  she  and  Zulma  sought  for  the  ripest  May- 
pops  and  muscadines,  and  in  spring-time,  they  tramped  through 
its  dewy  paths,  searching  for  the  wild  violets  which  lurked 
around  in  pleasant  nooks.  At  tne  sound  of  the  bell,  she  arose 
and  mechanically  placed  her  drawing  materials  in  their  recept- 
acle. Neither  her  teacher  or  her  class-mates  ever  discovered 
the  cause  of  her  sudden  emotion,  or  the  sadness  of  expression 
which  seemed  to  have  settled  on  her  usually  cheerful  counten- 
ance. 


LETTERS    FROM    THE    CONVENT.  119 


CHAPTER  XII. 

letters  from  the  convent. 

Convent  Sacred  Heart,  Nov.  28,  1860. 

Dear  Papa  and  Mamma — Mother  Alchenar  has  given 
me  permission  to  write  a  little  every  day  at  the  noon  recess,  so 
that  I  may  have  a  long  letter  to  send  you  on  Fridays. 

I  am  getting  over  my  home- sickness  very  nicely,  I  think. 
The  ladies  are  so  kind  to  me,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  learned 
to  love  my  new  home.  I  give  all  my  attention  to  my  studies,  be- 
cause I  know  the  sooner  I  finish  my  education,  the  sooner  I 
shall  return  home  for  good.  I  get  very  lonely  at  night,  and 
love  to  stand  by  the  dormatory  windows  to  watch  the  boats. 
They  are  passing  at  all  hours  of  the  night — such  magnificent 
things,  Mamma,  with  the  red  light  of  the  cinders  trailing  be- 
hind them.  When  they  make  a  landing  at  the  Convent,  I 
make  myself  believe  that  you,  Papa,  are  coming  to  see  me.  I 
wrote  you  a  short  letter  last  week;  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  write 
more.  Dear  Grosse  Tete  seems  so  much  out  of  the  way  of 
boats,  I'm  afraid  my  letter  will  take  a  great,  great  while  to 
reach  you.  Mamma,  do  you  remember  what  a  time  you  had 
trying  to  get  me  to  write  letters  for  exercises?  I  thought  it 
mean  of  you  to  force  me  to  write  to  people  who  had  died  long 
ago.  I  did  not  mind  writing  to  that  good  Mr,  Addison,  who 
helped  to  make  the  Spectator  so  interesting;  or  to  Mr.  Davies, 
to  tell  him  how  hard  I  found  his  arithmetic;  but  I  did  hate  to 
write  to  Mrs.  Trollope,  who  made  fun  of  us  Americans.  I  see 
now,  you  were  only  preparing  me  for  this  separation,  and  I 
am  thankful  to  you  for  all  the  pains  you  took  to  teach  me. 


120  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

In  my  first  letter,  I  wrote  that  I  was  staying  at  the  little 
Pensionnat,  this  is  the  home  of  the  youngest  girls  at  the 
Sacred  Heart.  We  live  in  the  rear  of  the  long  music  house 
back  of  the  Chapel.  We  are  forty  little  girls  in  all,  and  one 
grown  girl — a  "Child  of  Mary" — who  helps  Madame  Doremus 
keep  us  straight.  We  have  a  better  time  than  the  large  Pen- 
sionnat. In  cold  weather  we  are  allowed  to  stay  in  bed  until 
breakfast  time.  Little  Ada  Saint  Armand  has  left  the  infirm- 
ary. We  love  each  other  dearly.  Madam  Doiemus  told  us 
that  her  life  was  in  constant  danger  from  heart  disease.  She 
is  not  allowed  to  run  about  and  romp,  like  the  rest  of  us 
girls. 

Dearest  ones,  I  am  trying  to  be  uood,  so  as  to  get  a  rib- 
bon at  the  next  distribution  of  prizes.  I  do  not  find  the  Con- 
vent rules  so  hard  to  observe,  except  silence.  When  I  first 
came,  I  was  in  the  habit  of  speaking  out  loud  at  any  time, 
just  as  we  do  at  home.  This  used  to  set  the  girls  to  giggling. 
Once,  I  spoke  out  in  the  refectory.  Madam  Miller,  who  stays 
with  us  at  meal  times,  turned  upon  me  with  a  look  of  aston- 
ishment and  rolled  her  eyes  at  me  in  a  manner  which  fright 
ened  me  very  much.  The  convent  fare  is  so  nice;  it  is  a  won- 
der to  me  how  the  Sisters  continue  to  furnish  us  with  so  many 
good  tilings.  We  have  dessert  every  day,  always  of  two 
kinds,  fruit  and  pie  or  cake. 

On  Fridays  they  give  us  pudding,  which  reminds  me  so 
much  of  Aunt  Polly's  "pig,"  only  this  is  filled  with  dried 
prunes  instead  of  peaches  and  apples  like  we  have  at  home. 

Yesterday  was  promenade  day,  and  we  had  a  delightful 
walk  to  the  woods.  Before  starting,  they  gave  each  of  us  a 
large  piece  of  ginger-cake  and  a  handful  of  pecans.  These  we 
ate  on  the  way.  The  way  to  the  woods  is  through  an  avenue 
of  magnificent  oaks  and  Lombardy  poplars.     It  seemed  over  a 


LETTERS    FROM    THE    CONVENT.  121 

mile  long,  and  it  is  as  grand  as  it  can  be.  The  girls  told  me 
that  they  are  sometimes  allowed  to  take  a  ramble  through  the 
woods,  but  last  evening  we  were  not  permitted  to  pass  the  big 
gate  because  we  got  there  too  late.  But  I  put  m}-  head  through 
the  bars  and  sniffed  the  sweet  odors  of  the  dim,  solemn  wood. 
The  familiar  scene  filled  my  heart  with  longings  for  home,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  nearer  you  at  that  moment  than  I 
had  ever  been  since  I  came.  While  I  was  gazing  at  the  grand 
old  trees  and  grape-vines,  I  heard  a  kildee  singing;  the  sound 
of  its  voice  rang  through  the  woods,  and  it  sang  as  sweetly  and 
as  mournfully  as  the  kildees  of  Grosse  Tete.  This  was  too 
much  for  my  poor  heart  to  bear,  and  I  laid  my  head  on 
the  bars  and  cried  most  disgracefully. 

I  am  improving  very  fast  in  music.  My  teacher  says  it 
IS  a  pity  I  had  not  begun  at  an  earlier  age.  But  I  do  not  re- 
gret the  years  I  spent  with  yon^  instead  of  being  here,  only  to 
learn  music.  The  guitar  is  not  as  difficult  to  learn  as  the 
piano,  and  I  have  plenty  time  before  me. 

I  have  been  writing  this  letter,  during  recess,  for  nearly  a 
week.  You  will  find  it  long,  my  sweet  ones;  you  will  have 
the  patience,  I  hope,  to  read  it  through.  Poor  Zulma  will 
enjoy  hearing  you  read  it. 

Give  my  love  to  all  my  friends,  and  tell  the  servants  I 
often  think  of  them  with  kindness  and  love.  Remember  me 
to  Uncle  Dave  and  all  the  darkies. 

I  wrote  to  grandpere  last  week. 

Let  me  know  whether  you  fancy  this  sort  of  a  journal. 
How  I  envy  its  lot!  It  shall  fall  into  your  hands,  dear 
mamma,  and  come  in  contact  with  your  sweet  breath.  I  cover 
this  page  with  kisses  for  you  and  papa. 

With  much  love,  I  remain  your  oion  affectionate, 

LuciLE. 


122  zulma,   a  story  of  the  old  south. 

Letter  ii. 

Christmas  Week,   Dec.  29,   1860. 

Thank  you,  thank  you,  darling  papa  and  mamma,  for  the 
box  you  sent  me!  Madame  Doremus  says  you  have  sent  me 
enough  things  to  last  six  months.  I  cut  the  cake  at  dinner  on 
Christmas  day,  and  distributed  it  among  the  little  girls.  Our 
table  looked  like  a  wedding  feast.  I  have  never  been  to  one, 
but  just  imagined  it  did  Kiss  grandpere  for  the  oranges; 
they  are  the  more  appreciated  because  they  were  raised  on  the 
©Id  plantation. 

Tell  grandmerp  that  I  have  not  yet  opened  the  jar  of  pre- 
serves, liut  it  is  an  object  of  attraction;  they  look  so  tempting 
through  the  glass;  they  are  so  transparent,  we  can  see  through 
and  through  the  peaches. 

Sister  Josephine  and  I  are  great  friends.  It  was  she  who 
opened  my  box.  I  offered  her  some  of  the  nice  things,  but 
she  shook  her  head,  and  told  me  to  "send  them  to  the  infir- 
mary instead."  Her  mind  is  bent  on  providing  dainties  for 
the  sick  girls.  She  hung  the  bunch  of  bananas  in  the  kitchen 
pantry  to  ripen.  You  ought  to  see  the  refectory  pantry!  It 
is  so  crowded  with  boxes  and  hampers,  there  is  no  standing 
room  left.  Each  boat  that  lands  puts  off  a  lot  of  boxes;  with 
few  exceptions,  all  the  girls  have  received  one  for  Christmas. 
I  make  it  a  duty  to  divide  the  contents  of  my  box  with  those 
less  fortunate  than  myself.  Whenever  I  ofler  them  things,  I  try 
to  make  them  believe  that  they  do  me  a  favor  by  accepting ;  it 
is  humiliation  enough  for  them  to  know  that  they  have  been 
neglected. 

Poor  little  Ada  was  not  remembered  by  any  ot  her  friends, 
I  filled  a  cornucopia  with  my  finest  and  prettiest  French  can- 
dies and  presented  it  to  her.  She  was  so  delighted  with  the 
gift,  that  she  began  dancing  all  over  the  room;  but  the  excite- 


LETTERS    FROM    THE    CONVENT.  123 

ment  soon  broke  her  down;  she  stopped  verj'  suddenly  and 
pressed  one  of  her  hands  over  her  little  heart,  saying:  "It  is 
jumping  hard,  Lucile."  Her  sweet  lips  had  turned  quite  blue, 
and  I  was  awfully  afraid  she  was  going  to  have  one  of  her 
spells  of  heart  disease. 

T  thought  the  religious  ceremonies  during  Christmas  week 
so  grand  and  touching.  I  became  very  pious,  that  is,  I  loved 
to  go  to  the  chapel  to  say  my  prayers.  The  altars  are  all 
magnificently  decorated;  at  the  foot  of  that  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin  is  a  waxen  figure  of  the  Infant  Jesus  Iving  in  a  man- 
ger.' It  stretches  out  its  little  hands  as  though  begging  to  be 
taken  out  of  its  cold  bed  of  straw.  It  looks  so  sweet  and 
natural,  it  is  hard  for  me  to  keep  from  doing  it. 

Every  evening  since  Christmas  we  have  had  some  sort  of 
entertainment.  On  Christmas  night  we  had  tableaux.  I  wish 
you  had  seen  how  lovely  they  were.  The  costumes  were  so 
strange  and  magnificent,  it  was  hard  to  recognize  the  girls  who 
took  part  in  them;  it  was  like  seeing  people  in  a  dream. 
When  they  represented  the  different  scenes  in  '  'The  Feast  of 
Balthasar"  I  was  struck  dumb  with  admiration.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  grand  and  beautiful  was  that  of  the  "Nativity." 

Then  they  showed  us  the  "magic  lantern."  The  Little 
Pensionnat  and  all  the  large  girls  were  assembled  in  the  first 
"cones."  Mother  Shannon  and  many  of  the  ladies  were  pres- 
ent. At  one  end  of  the  room  was  the  apparatus;  it  reminded 
me  of  cannons  I  had  seen  in  pictures.  Mother  Murphy  was 
standing  behind  it,  and  I  imagined  she  was  going  to  shoot  at 
us;  this  made  me  feel  very  uncomfortable.  But,  after  a  while, 
they  brought  in  a  large  screen  which  they  placed  before  the 
lantern,  then,  a  brilliant  light  fell  upon  the  white  screen,  followed 
by  a  beautiful  picture  of  Adam  and  Eve  in  the  garden  of 
Eden.     It  was  a  pleasant  surprise  to  me,  for  1  had  no  idea  of 


124         ZULMA,  A  STORY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH, 

the  effects  produced  by  the  magnifying  glasses.  Some  of  the 
representations  were  funny  and  made  us  laugh;  others  were 
very  pretty,  especiall}'  those  of  the  active  volcanoes  and  "ships 
on  fire."  They  showed  us  many  historical  pictures,  about 
which  Mother  Shannon  questioned  us;  I  could  have  answered 
every  time,  but  was  too  timid  to  do  so. 

On  other  nights,  we  had  plays  and  charades  which  were 
also  very  amusing.  The  one  called  "Behind  Time, "  was  so 
funny,  that  we  laughed  during  the  whole  performance.  It  was 
written  by  one  of  the  nuns  who  is  the  glummest  looking  crea- 
ture you  ever  saw.  It  is  a  wonder  to  me  how  she  managed  to 
think  of  so  many  laughable  things.  She  never  laughs  herself, 
and  I  reckon,  never  did,  even  when  she  was  composing  the  piece. 

We  had  most  fun  on  Saata  Claus'  night.  We  were  once 
more  seated  in  one  of  the  large  class-rooms  in  the  middle  of 
which  were  half  a  dozen  long  poles  laying  across  the  backs  of 
chairs.  Hundreds  of  stockings,  tied  in  pairs  and  bulging  out 
from  top  to  toe,  hung  across  these  poles.  When  all  was  ready, 
one  of  the  ladies  began  calling  out  the  numbers;  each  girl 
went  for  her  own  stocking,  but  was  forbidden  to  open  it  before 
permission  was  given.  After  the  last  number  was  called  out, 
a  signal  was  given  for  us  to  open  and  inspect  the  contents  of 
the  stockings.  You  should  have  heard  the  shouts  and  laugh- 
ter which  followed.  The  stockings  were  filled  with  all  sorts  of 
things,  fruit,  candies,  ashes,  stones,  hard  boiled  eggs,  potatoes, 
dolls  and  pencils.  Each  article  was  wrapped  up  in  a  separate 
piece  of  paper.  You  may  know  with  what  impatience  we  tore 
open  the  parcels.  Some  of  the  girls  had  less  than  others,  this 
was  the  cause  of  much  dissatisfaction.  I  had  nothing  to  com- 
plain of;  besides  a  small  volume  of  Lamartine's  poems,  I 
found  a  beautifully  dressed  doll.  Ada,  too,  had  a  doll  and 
many  dtber  pretty  things,   which  she  offered  to  divide  with 


LETTERS    FROM    THE    CONVENT.  125 

those  who  had  not  been  so  well  served.  The  child  has  strange 
notions;  it  so  happened  that  both  of  her  neighbors  found  a 
corn  cob  in  their  stockings;  this  attracted  her  attention.  After 
opening  all  her  parcels  she  looked  around  with  an  air  of  disap- 
pointment and  said : 

"But — Santa  Glaus  forgot  to  give  n?e  a  cob!' 

All  the  girls  laughed  and  bee  an  throwing  corn  cobs  in  her 
lap,  until  she  cried  out: 

"Don't — I  want  just  one." 

Everybody  here  loves  her  and  allows  her  to  have  her  own 
way. 

Our  holidays  are  nearly  ended,  and  I  shall  never  forget 
my  first  Christmas  at  the  Sacred  Heart.  Everything  was  so  new ; 
the  impressions  made  are  deep  and  will  never  be  effaced  from 
my  memory.  I  have  seen  so  much  since  1  left  home,  that  my 
whole  life  seems  like  a  year,  compared  with  these  last  weeks. 
I  am  learning  to  love  my  new  home  and  the  kind  ladies.  It  is 
much  better  that  I  should,  since  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  stay 
here  until  I  finish  my  education;  otherwise,  I  would  be  too 
miserable  to  learn  much.  But  do  not  imagine  I  am  forgetting 
you  my  darling  ones.  I  have  you  in  my  mind,  constantly; 
only,  the  thought  of  you  does  not  cause  me  as  much  unhappi- 
ness,  as  when  I  first  came. 

I  think  of  you  with  the  fond  hope,  that  in  a  few  years,  I 
shall  return  to  3'ou,  never  more  to  leave  you. 

Your  affectionate  daughter, 

LUCILE. 


126  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Letter  III — Sad  Tidings. 

Jan.  3,  1861. 

0  mamma,  little  Ada  is  dead!  This  will  be  sad  news  to 
you;  goodness  knows  it  is  hard  enough  for  me  to  write  about. 
Although  we  all  knew  she  had  heart  disease,  and  was,  at  any 
time,  in  danger  of  death,  we  lived  in  hopes  that  she  would 
have  been  spared  us  many  years  to  come.  The  suddenness 
of  her  death  was  a  great  shock  to  me,  almost  as  much  so  as 
was  poor  little  Katie  Dawsey's  ending.  This  is  the  second 
time  I  have  lost  the  ones  1  loved. 

We  had  passed  such  a  pleasant  Christmas  week.  Ever)' 
evening  the  ladies  got  up  some  kind  of  entertainment  for  our 
benefit.  Poor  little  Ada  seemed  to  enjoy  them  more  than  any 
one  else.  She  went  wild  over  the  tableaux,  and  would  stand 
upon  the  benches  and  clap  her  hands,  each  time  the  bell  rang 
for  the  curtain  to  rise.  She  seemed  to  be  making  the  most  of 
the  life  so  nearly  ended.  On  the  morning  of  the  31st  she  had 
an  attack  of  the  palpitation  during  recess.  Madame  Doremus 
had  her  taken  to  the  infirmary.  As  soon  as  she  felt  better, 
she  begged  to  be  allowed  to  return  to  the  little  Pensionnat,but 
the  doctor  would  not  hear  of  it.  There  were  half  a  dozen 
patients  beside  Ada,  in  the  infirmary.  As  it  was  New  Year's 
eve,  and  they  were  only  sick  from  cold.  Sister  Bondreau  gave 
them  permission  to  play  games  during  the  night  recreation. 
They  amused  themselves  playing  one  called  "mad-dog,"  which 
is  very  noisy  and  exciting.  Ada  was  forbidden  to  join  them, 
but  she  sat  up  in  bed  and  watched  them  chasing  each  other 
around  the  room.  •  Whenever  they  came  near  her  bed,  she 
would  scream  and  jump  next  to  the  wall.  This  made  her  so 
nervous,  that  she  was  taken  with  another  attack  of  the  palpi- 
tation. It  was  some  time  before  her  companions  noticed  her 
condition;  as  soon   as  they  did,  they  ran  out  to  inform   the 


LETTERS    FROM    THE    CONVENT.  127 

sister-infirmarian,  who  immediately  sent  for  Madame  Doremus. 
We  were  all  at  play  and  were  having  a  gay  time,  when  one  of 
the  sisters  came  in  and  beckoned  to  her.  Madame  Doremus 
left  us  in  charge  of  Celeste,  as  she  always  does  on  leaving. 
We  thought  nothing  of  her  absence,  and  continued  our  chatting 
and  romping.  In  a  short  while,  Madame  Doremus  returned, 
when  she  opened  the  door,  I  looked  around,  as  a  person  will 
naturally  do  on  anyone's  entrance.  But,  0  mamma!  I  saw 
something  in  her  looks  which  made  my  heart  stop  beating.  She 
stood  in  the  half  open  door  and  the  light  fell  directly  in  her 
face;  it  was  as  white  as  a  sheet!  I  think  I  was  the  first  to 
notice  this,  or  to  suspect  that  something  dreadful  had  happened. 
I  stood  up  and  waved  my  hand  to  silence  the  children;  it  took 
them  some  time  to  understand  what  I  wanted.  By  degrees, 
they  stopped  talking  and  turned  in  the  direction  where  Madame 
Doremus  was  standing  with  her  hand  still  resting  upon  the 
door-knob.  When  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  so  unnatural  that 
I  would  not  have  recognized  it. 

"Children,"  she  said,  "I  have  come  to  announce  to  you 
that  one  of  your  companions — has  just  left  you — and  is  now 
an  angel  in  Paradise." 

When  she  said  this,  I  cried  out:      "Is  it  Ada!" 

"Yes, "  answered  Madame  Doremus;  "the  dear  child  has 
done  with  life's  sufferings;  her  little  heart  is,  at  length,  at 
rest,  and  her  pure  spirit  has  found  its  true  home." 

The  children  stared  at  each  other  as  though  they  had  not 
understood  the  meaning  of  her  words.  One  of  the  little  girls 
looked  up  in  mj  face  and  asked:  "What  is  the  matter  with 
Ada,  Lucile?"  I  burst  into  tears.  We  all  cried  for  Ada,  for 
she  was  the  most  loveable  child  I  had  ever  known.  After  a 
while,  Madame  Doremus  returned  to  her  desk  and  called  us 
around  her.     The  first  thing  we  noticed  was  little  Ada's  chair, 


128  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

in  which  she  used  to  sit  and  peep  at  ns  from  behind  her  book. 
Those  dear,  laus;hing  eyes,  we  shall  never  see  again!  After 
we  were  all  seated,  Madame  Doreraus  began  telling  lis  about 
Ada.  She  was  still  alive  and  conscious  of  her  teacher's  pres- 
ence, for  she  begged  with  gasping  breath  to  be  carried  to  her 
own  little  bed.  She  expired  repeating  after  Madame  Doremus 
these  dying  words:      "Little  Jesus,  receive  my  soul." 

We  sat  there  for  a  long  time  crying  and  listening  to  the 
beautiful  things  Madame  Doremus  told  us  about  heaven,  and 
the  love  of  Jesus  for  little  children.  Her  words  consoled  us 
for  the  loss  of  Ada;  for,  after  all,  God  knew  what  was  best  for 
her.  She  was  a  lovely  orphan,  and  He  removed  her  from 
earth  while  her  soul  was  without  blemish. 

Ours  was  a  sad  New  Year's  day!  The  world  outside 
was  cold  and  dreary,  and  within  it  was  still  more  gloomy. 
The  next  mornmg  after  Ada's  death,  I  was  permitted  to  accom- 
pany some  of  the  older  girls  who  went  to  look  upon  her  for 
the  last  time.  They  had  laid  her  out  on  one  of  the  little  cots 
in  one  of  the  rooms  adjoining  the  infirmary.  She  was  beauti- 
fully dressed,  and  a  wreath  of  white  roses  lay  oo  her  dark 
curls.  There  was  a  sweet  smile  on  her  lips;  she  looked  as 
though  she  was  only  sleeping  and  having  a  pleasant  dream.  I 
thought  her  even  prettier  than  when  alive,  and  more  childish 
in  appearance.  .Sister  B —  told  us,  it  is  supposed  that  the 
soul,  on  leaving  the  body,  assumes  its  likeness;  only,  it  is  di- 
vested of  all  traces  of  age  and  human  imfirmities,  and  is  clothed 
with  eternal  youth.  This  is  a  very  sweet  and  consoling  belief, 
mamma;  if  it  be  true,  we  shall  recognize  each  other  in  heaven. 
They  had  crossed  little  Ada's  hands  very  naturally  over  the 
heart  which  had  been  the  cause  of  so  much  annoyance  and  suf- 
fering to  her.  I  had  often  seen  them  in  that  position,  but 
never  %o  pencefully  and  permanently  at  rest.      Ada's  body  was 


LETTERS    VROM    THE    CONVENT.  129 

to  be  placed  in  the  large  tomb  in  the  convent  cemetery.  None 
of  the  girls  were  allowed  to  attend  the  burial,  as  the  weather 
was  very  cold,  and  they  started  in  a  drizzling  rain.  The  fun- 
eral took  place  late  in  the  evening.  Tt  was  awfully  sad  to  see 
them  passing  with  poor  little  Ada.  The  priest  and  the  nuns 
formed  a  dreary  procession  which  filled  my  heart  with  grief  and 
fear.  I  thought  of  the  precious  child  being  laid  into  that 
lonely  tomb  and  left  there  alone — she  who  was  so  full  of  life 
and  so  fond  of  sunshine!  O  mamma!  it  is  tefrible  to  die  away 
from  home! 

Come  and  see  me,  my  dear  papa;  I  am  so  lonely. 

Your  loving,  L. 


I 


130  ZULMA,   A   STORY   OF   THE    NEW    SOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

HOME    AGAIN. 

/~\N  a  glorious  afternoon,  near  the  close  of  August,  a  hand- 
^-^  some  family  carriage  rumbled  merrily  along  the  cool, 
shady  banks  of  Grosse  Tete.  Lucile  Hunt,  on  her  way  home, 
watched  with  beaming  eyes,  every  feature  of  the  familiar  scene 

The  emerald  waters  of  the  bayou,  flashing  from  behind 
the  dark  green  foliage  of  trees,  seemed  to  her  far  more  inter- 
esting than  even  the  great  Mississippi,  sweeping  pompously 
down  to  meet  the  ocean.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  fragrance 
of  maturing  vegetation.  The  twitter  of  birds,  mingled  with 
the  harsh  caw-caw  of  exultant  crows,  winging  their  flight 
across  the  corn-fields;  and  somewhere  beneath  the  azure  sky, 
the  plaintive  call  of  the  partridge,  fell  to  earth  in  undulating 
strains. 

At  a  certain  turn  of  the  route,  the  spirited  greys,  with 
tossing  heads  and  quickened  speed  plunged  beneath  the 
ancient  oaks  and  locusts  lining  the  roadside  on  the  Hunt  plan- 
tation. Lucile  now  beheld  at  a  distance  a  well  known  figure 
speeding  with  outstretched  arms  to  welcome  her. 

"Hole  on  dere,  Unc'  Dave!"  cried  the  breathless  Zulma. 
"Stop  dat  carriage  tell  1  hitch  on." 

But  the  surly  Jehu  shook  the  reins  and  snapped  his  whip 
in  her  face. 

"You  knowed  de  way  clean  tur  yere,  did  you?  Well,  you 
kin  trot  back,"  was  his  ungallant  reply. 

"Check  your  horses,  Dave,"  interposed  his  master,  "and 
ofive  her  time  to  climb  on  behind." 


HOME    AGAIN.  131 

"How  you  come  on,  little  mistis?"  exclaimed  Zulma,  in- 
troducing herself  through  the  opening  and  bending  over  to 
scrutinize  the  lovely  face  within. 

"I  am  well,  thank  you,  Zulma,  and  so  glad  to  see  you 
again." 

"T'ank  de  Lawd,  you  come  back!  I  was  on  t'orns  and 
cockle-burrs  'bout  you  ever  sense  day  befo'  yisterday. " 

•'Indeed!"  cried  Lucile,  pressing  warmly  the  slave's  coarse, 
black  fingers;  "and  what  made  you  feel  so  uncomfortable 
about  me,  I  wonder?" 

"Didn't  I  go  an'  dream  de  Quitman  blowded  up  wid  you 
an'  yo'  pa?" 

"Oh  my!"  exclaimed  Lucile  laughing  merrily;  "you  see  for 
yourself  how  groundless  were  your  fears.  Oh  dear!"  continued 
she,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  animation,  "there's  the  old  bridge 
and  the  "Wisteria  vines  still  clinging  to  the  cotton-woods." 

"An'  deres  de  Injins!"  added  Zulma.  "I  spect  dey  bin 
dancin'  juba,  little  mistis." 

"How's  that?" 

"Nobody  been  prayin'  'm  out  ovpergitory,  sense  you  lef." 

"Why  Zulma,"  replied  Lucile  with  seeming  concern,  "you 
should  have  prayed  for  them  while  I  was  away!" 

"Who,  me?     I  let  'm  frizzle,  yes." 

The  distance  from  this  picturesque  bridge  to  the  next, 
was  a  little  over  a  quarter  of  a  mile;  it  spanned  "Back  Creek," 
a  bayou  which  ran  into  Grosse  Tete  at  the  high  point  upon 
which  the  new  residence  bad  been  erected.  The  prospect  be- 
tween the  two  bridges  was  entirely  intercepted  by  the  trees 
which  lined  the  roadside.  The  public  road,  cut  within  the  bed 
of  this  bayou,  formed  a  considerable  slope  towards  the  bridge, 
and  a  perpendicular  embankment  flanked  it  all  the  way  up  the 
declivity.      Hence,    the   ascent  of   the  carriage  was  gradual. 


132  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH, 

Lucile,  in  her  anxiety  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  mother,  had 
directed  her  undivided  attention  towards  the  old  home  which 
came  in  view  just  as  the  horses  reached  the  level  road.  But 
alas!  time  had  despoiled  it  of  its  homel}'  charms,  and  hung 
about  it  an  air  of  forlornness  which  struck  her  senses  with  dis- 
may. The  old  cabin,  shrunken  in  size,  seemed  to  have  re- 
treated in  conscious  humility  behind  the  trees  and  shrubbery 
which  now  rioted  in  front  of  it,  Lucile  was  disturbed  by  pain- 
ful and  conflicting  emotions.  Was  it  possible  that  her  heart 
had  grown  callous,  or  that  the  elegance  of  her  late  residence 
and  its  refining  atmosphere,  had  created  a  distaste  for  this 
humble  domicile,  or  diminished  her  former  attachment  to  a  spot 
teeming  with  memories  of  her  happy  childhood?  Her  better 
nature  instantly  revolted  against  the  bare  idea,  and  her  throb- 
bing heart  was  overwhelmed  by  feelings  of  tenderness  and  re- 
morse. 

''You's  on  de  wrong  trac',  little  mistis,"  exclaimed  Zulraa, 
who  had  been  observing  with  keen  relish  the  natural  mistake 
made  by  Lucile.      Look  over  yonder  !"«> 

The  girl  was  totally  unprepared  for  the  sight  which  met 
her  e3^es  as  she  turned  in  the  direction  indicated.  Several 
times,  during  her  absence  from  home,  she  had  asked  concern- 
ing the  progress  of  the  new  house,  but  her  parents  had  ignored 
her  questions,  and  she  took  it  for  granted  that  for  some  good 
cause,  the  work  upon  it  had  been  suspended.  Her  surprise 
and  pleasure  were  therefore  unbounded,  when  she  beheld  the 
elegantly  finished  mansion  standing  in  the  place  of  the  nonde- 
script building  she  had  left  only  eight  months  before.  The 
carriage  turned  from  the  public  road  into  a  wide  avenue  of 
young  chinatrees.  The  handsome  edifice,  with  its  graceful 
white  columns,  now  peered  from  between  the  trees  like  an  airy 
palace  created   by   the  wand    of  enchantment.      So    thought 


HOME    AGAIN.  133 

Lucile  as  she  gazed  upon  it  with  unfeigned  admiration  and 
surprise;  she  seemed  bewildered  and  unable  to  realize  that 
this  magnificent  home  was  destined  to  replace  their  former 
puny  habitation.  These  pleasant  thoughts  were  suddenly  in- 
terrupted by  the  appearance  of  her  mother,  who,  with  a  num- 
ber of  her  friends,  hastened  to  welcome  her.  Was  ever  human 
heart  overpowered  by  emotions  as  sweetly  blended  as  that  of 
Lucile,  as  she  viewed  through  her  tears,  such  love  and  beauty! 

"How  could  you  have  finished  it  so  exquisitely?"  she 
questioned ;  '  'how  could  you  coax  the  plants  to  grow  so  tall 
and  luxuriantly,  during  so  short  a  time?" 

"Love  and  a  desire  to  surprise  you,  my  darling,  emulrted 
our  ambition  and  inspired  the  flowers  to  grow;"  replied  her 
father,  gazing  tenderly  into  her  sweet,  expressive  countenance. 

"It  will  take  me  a  lifetime  to  repay  you,"  she  whispered, 
passing  her  hand  caressingly  through  his  arm. 

As  the  happy  party  sauntered  up  the  gravel  walk,  Lucile 
broke  into  increasing  exclamations  of  delight  at  every  fresh 
object  falling  unexpectedlv  beneath  her  notice. 

"Yon  brought  the  ferns  from  the  woods.  I  know,  mamma;'' 
she  exclaimed,  fingering  the  graceful  fronds.  "I  wonder  how 
they  like  it  here,  among  these  fine  fiowers.  I  declare,  here 
are  real  century  plants  like  the  ones  in  the  convent  pasture;  and 
these  are  hydiangeas,  tiger  lilies  and  dahlias.  You  see  mamma, 
I've  been  studying  botany.  What  elegant  steps!"  she  con- 
tinued, running  up  the  newly  painted  flight.  "Oh  the  magnifi- 
cent hall  and  pretty  furniture!  why  this  is  perfectly  beautiful, 
papa,  and  is  a  paradise. "  She  turned  to  her  mother,  her  cheeks 
glowing  with  excitement;  "we  shall  be  as  happy  here,  mamma, 
as  we  were  in  our  old  cabin  over  there."  But  the  sentiment 
sounded  like  treason  to  the  sensitive  and  impulsive  girl.  She 
threw  herself  in  her  mother's  armSj  exclaiming :     '  'That  would 


134  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

be  impossible,  we  can  never  forget  the  liappy  time  we  had 
there,  never,  never!" 

"And  yon  are  ready  to  cry  over  the  crazy  old  cabin,  in- 
stead of  thanking  your  stars  that  you're  out  of  it;"  replied 
Nannie  Dawsey,  unclasping  her  arms  and  leading  her  across 
the  hall  into  a  cozy  bedroom  which  the  girl  announced  to  her 
was  her  "very  own." 

As  they  entered,  a  soft  breeze,  freighted  with  the  odor  of 
the  Chinese  jasmine  crept  beneath  the  rustling  curtains  and 
wafted  her  a  silent  welcome.  Besides  a  dainty  set  of  cottage 
bedroom  furniture,  there  were  rockers,  easy-chairs  and  a  luxu- 
rious lounge;  there  were  books,  pictures  and  flowers. 

Once  again  Lucile  was  seized  with  rapturous  delight,  and 
under  necessity  of  throwing  herself  mto  her  mother's  arms  to 
smother  her  with  kisses. 

There  was  so  much  to  say,  to  see  and  admire,  it  took 
Lucile  an  hour  to  divest  herself  of  her  dusty  garments  and  don 
the  prett}'  lawn  her  mother  had  prepared  for  her. 

After  every  apartment  had  been  visited,  Mrs.  Hunt  in- 
vited Lucile's  guests  into  the  spacious  dining-room,  where  an 
elaborate  lunch  was  served,  and  where  they  lingered  until  the 
time  had  come  to  sav  "ff  rccolr.'' 

The  sweet  recollection  of  this  happy  ev^ening  clung  to 
Lucile  as  the  fragrance  of  a  rose  clings  to  the  leaves  of  a  book 
in  which  it  has  been  pressed. 

"I  am  going  to  Livonia  to  attend  a  meeting  of  Vestry- 
men," said  Mr.  Hunt,  one  evening  to  his  wife;  "if  you  and 
Lucile  feel  disposed  to  make  a  call,  I  shall  order  the  carriage 
instead  of  the  buggy." 

"That  will  be  nice!"  exclaimed  Lucile,  inserting  a  book- 
mark between  the  leaves  of  one  of  Longfellow's  poems.    "Hia- 


HOME    AGAIN.  135 

watha  can  well  atford  to  tarry  with  Minnehaha  on  'their 
pleasant  journey  homeward,'  until  our  return.  Shall  we  go 
mamma?" 

"Yes,  since  you  have  already  settled  the  question,"  an- 
swered her  mother  smiling. 

"Where  do  you  intend  stopping,  mamma?" 

"At  the  Gresham's,  I  think.'" 

"0,  I  am  so*  glad,  it  is  a  delightful  place  to  visit.  I  must 
wear  my  best,  mustn't  I?"'  asked  Lucile  rising  and  looking  m- 
quiringly  at  her  mother.     They  are  such  stylish  people." 

"You  have  nothing  finer  than  your  white  swiss;  you  may 
give  a  finishing  touch  by  tucking  a  rose  in  your  belt."  And  a 
lovely  picture  she  made  a  half  an  hour  later,  as  she  walked  to 
the  gate  where  the  carriage  stood  waiting.  The  sott  folds  of 
her  snowy  gown,  undisguised  by  either  puff  or  flounce,  fell 
gracefully  to  the  top  of  her  tiny  boots.  Her  cheeks,  shaded 
by  a  wide-brimmed  leghorn,  rivaled  in  delicacy  of  coloring  the 
velvety  cabbage-rose,  she  repeatedly  raised  to  her  lips, 

"Dese  yere  hawses  gittin'  so  stuck  up,"  remarked  Dave, 
pulling  and  twitching  at  the  reins;  "'fore  long,  dey  won't 
want  ter  titch  de  ground." 

"No  wonder  TTncle,  they  are  such  beauties,"  exclaimed 
Lucile,  walking  around  them  and  gazing  with  eyes  full  of  ad- 
miration. "I  like  to  see  them  paw  the  earth  like  that,  and 
put  on  their  airs!" 

'  'Sense  yo'  paw  went  an'  bought  'em  dese  yere  shimn' 
harnesses,  dey  swell  up  fit  to  buss!"  continued  he,  eyeing  his 
team  with  feigned  vindicativeness. 

"Do  they  indeed!"  ejaculated  Lucile,  with  a  half  incredu- 
lous air,      '  'You  give  them  too  much  oats  and  corn.  Uncle. " 


136  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

The  negro  burst  into  a  hearty  fit  of  laughter;  "go  'long 
chile,  its  de  debbil  in  'em,  yes;  dey  ready  dis  minute  to  break 
into  a  reg'ler  stampede,  jes'  outter  debbilment. " 

"I  shouldn't  care  if  they  did,  under  papa's  management; 
they  would  have  to  tow  the  mark,  eh  Uncle  Dave?  " 

The  okl  darkie  groaned  in  response;  his  young  mistress 
had  inadvertently  pricked  at  some  tender  spot  in  the  regions 
of  his  heart. 

After  the  family  had  been  seated,  Mr.  Hunt  collected  the 
reins  and  signified  his  desire  to  drive.  Conscious  of  the  mas- 
terly hand  which  was  to  guide  and  control  them,  the  high 
stepping  pair  arched  their  glossy  necks  and  nodded  with  sup- 
pressed eagerness.  At  the  word  of  command,  they  started 
with  a  bound,  and  skimmed  along  with  a  fleetness  and  uni- 
formity of  motion  which  elicited  the  admiration  of  all  who  be- 
held them. 

Away,  and  awa}^,  they  sped;  past  corn-fields,  where  the 
harvesters  bobbing  in  and  out  of  the  golden  ripple,  resembled 
a  flock  of  crows  pilfering  the  planters'  grain.  Past  loof-houses 
enclosed  by  primitive  fences,  upon  which  a  crowd  of  little 
darkies  perched,  bare-legged  and  hatless,  enjoying,  like  Salo- 
manders,  the  streaming  sunlight.  Past  neat  cottages  and 
dwellings  where  thrift  and  taste  were  manifested.  The  air 
around  was  redolent  with  the  fragrance  of  flowers  and  new 
mown  hay.  In  every  cotton-field,  the  slaves,  like  a  band  of 
children  in  a  garden  of  roses,  plucked  with  flyiug  fingers  the 
flaky  staple.  Dave  surveyed  in  silence,  the  snowy  fields  and 
busy  laborers;  he  was  in  a  ruminating  mood  and  gave  vent 
to  his  reflections  in  the  following  observation: 

"YoM  kin  sho'  tell  we'n  day's  a  hard  marstar  on  a  place 
wen  you  see  niggars  goin'  on  at  dat  dead  rate  nebber  noticin' 


HOME    AGAIN.  137 

nuffin'  'roim'  em,  you  know  day  got  dare  two  'unded  poun'  ter 
pick  or  day  'unded  lashes  to  git." 

"lam  glad  that's  not  the  rule  on  our  place,"  remarked 
Lucile. 

"We  doz  de  bes'  we  know  how,"  continued  Dave;  "an' 
yo'  paw  see  fur  hissef  he's  takin'  de  shine  offer  dem's  dat's 
runnin'  day  niggars  tur  death  squizzin'  work  out  ter  em." 

At  Livonia,  Mr.  Hunt  resigned  the  reins.  "You  will  find 
them  easy  to  manage  now,"  he  said  to  the  driver.  "Let  them 
trot  comfortably  the  rest  of  the  way." 

"Brier  Hose"  plantation  extended  nearly  a  mile  along  the 
banks  of  Grosse  Tete.  It  was  a  lovelj'  place ;  in  every  corner 
of  the  picturesque  rail-fence,  a  rosebush  clambered  and  surged 
over,  strewing  the  grassy  roadside  with  their  creamy  petals.  A 
grand  and  elegant  mansion,  with  deep  galleries  and  long,  white 
colonnade,  glittered  like  a  modern  chateau,  at  the  extremity  of 
a  magnificent  grove.  The  immense  ya,Td  and  parterre  which 
surrounded  the  building,  presented  an  assemblage  of  trees, 
mingling  in  harmonious  outlines,  their  rich  and  varied  foliage. 
There  were  hospitable  cedars,  the  nursery  of  the  mockingbirds; 
and  live-oaks,  with  the  parasitic  moss  drooping  in  grey  festoons 
from  their  ancient  boughs.  Magnificent  weeping-willows  trailed 
their  emerald  skirts  upon  the  sward.  Great  Lombardy  pop- 
lars, as  if  in  disdain,  gathered  their  limbs  about  them  and 
proudly  towered  above  the  rest.  In  and  out,  between  the 
patches  of  shade  and  sunshine,  were  flower-beds,  rustic  seats 
and  summer  houses.  A  bevy  of  pretty  children  ran  with  their 
hoops  and  shuttle-cocks,  to  meet  the  visitors  in  the  central 
alley  and  offered,  with  winsome  grace,  their  rosy  lips  to  be 
kissed. 


138  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Corine  Gresliam,  a  girl  with  intellectual  countenance  and 
a  perfect  specimen  of  blonde  beauty,  greeted  Lucile  and  her 
mother  with  cordiality  and  that  self-possession  which  belong  to 
children  of  distinguished  Southern  families. 

Mrs.  Gresham  herself  was  a  beautiful  woman,  full  of  wit 
and  vivacity;  a  charming  hostess  and  a  great  favorite  in 
society.  The  contrast  between  the  two  women  was  evident; 
but  the  dash  and  brilliancy  which  suited  so  well  the  style  of 
the  woman  of  the  world,  only  served  to  accentuate  the  refined 
and  unobstrusive  beauty  of  the  gentle  Creole,  Nor  did  the  in- 
compatibility of  their  disposition  interfere  with  their  friendly 
intercourse;  the  two  drifted  into  pleasant  converse,  touching 
upon  a  v.ariety  of  subjects,  social  and  domestic,  then  upon  the 
literature  of  the  day,  and  lastly,  the  momentous  war  question. 
Here  they  stood  upon  common  grounds  and  discussed  it  with 
all  the  warmth  and  enthusiasm  of  Southern  patriots.  In  the 
meantime,  Corine  had  invited  Lucile  for  a  ramble  over  the 
premises.  As  they  stepped  into  the  pasture,  a  superb  peacock 
flew  from  a  neighboring  shrub  to  a  marble  statue  of  Flora, 
upon  whose  head  it  perched  and  flaunted  its  starry  train  as  if 
inviting  the  admiration  of  the  two  girls. 

"How  many  peafowls  have  you  now?"  asked  Lucile  gazing 
upon  it  with  childish  delight  and  interest. 

"Only  three;  you  see,  I  can  hardly  indulge  in  the  luxury 
of  serving  up  to  my  friends  a  dish  of  peacocks'  tongues. " 

"But  you  miglit  do  the  next  thing  to  that,  Corine,  bake 
them  a  pie  made  of  the  tongues  of  mocking  birds;  the  place  is 
alive  with  them." 

"Oh  you  cannibal!"  laughed  Corine,  "would  you  really 
partake  of  such  a  feast. " 

"I  think  I  would  enjoy  their  warblings  better,"  answered 

Lucile,  somewhat  confused. 


HOME    AGAIN.  139 

"And  we  are  to  be  treated  to  a  rausicale  without  the  ask- 
ing," answered  Corine,  peeping  into  the  branches  of  a  laburnum 
whence  proceeded  the  preluding  notes  of  a  mocker.  "Listen! 
'Tis  a  wonder  to  me,  how  their  little  heads  can  hold  such  a  re. 
pertoire.  The  airy  singer  began,  first,  by  mimmicking  the 
garrulous  tree  martin,  then,  the  twitter  of  a  gossiping  swallow. 
Suddenly,  its  little  throat  collapsed,  bringing  forth  the  low, 
faint  cry  of  a  distressed  chick.  So  pitiful  and  natural  is  the 
imitation,  it  is  said,  it  often  arouses  the  maternal  alarm  of  the 
mother  hen,  especially  when  it  is  followed  by  the  equally  per- 
fect and  threatening  cry  of  the  hawk.  Next,  it  burst  into  the 
triumphant  song  of  a  lark,  cleaving  its  way  through  a  summer 
sky.  It  finished  off  with  a  gush  of  glee;  then,  a  warble,  dwind- 
ling down  into  a  rippling  murmur,  learned  from  a  woodland 
orchestra.  Gently,  softly,  the  quivering  notes  expired — mourn- 
ful as  the  last  chords  Love  sweeps  across  the  strings  of  a 
broken  heart. 

"My!"  exclaimed  Lucile,  "wasn't  that  beautiful?" 
"That  must  have  been  a  Jennie  Lind  among  the  birds," 
replied  Corme.  "We  Louisianans  ought  to  be  proud  of  the 
tribe — by  the  way,  how  are  you  getting  along  with  your  music?" 
"Finely;  I  know  all  my  scales  and  can  play  the  '■Maiden's 
Prayer,'  "  answered  Lucile  laughing;  "that's  one  of  our  stand- 
ards at  the  convent." 

'  'It  is  ?  And  which  is  next  in  order  in  your  musical 
progress?"  asked  the  girl  passing  her  arms  around  her  friend's 
waist,  and  leading  her  among  the  blooming  geraniums  and 
heliotropes. 

"The  'Monastery  Bells,'  I  think." 
"Has  your  father  bought  you  a  piano  yet?" 
"No,  for  there  was  no  occasion  for  it;  on  my  last   birth- 
day, my  grandfather  made  me  a  present  of  a  fine  Knabe." 


140  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"How  old  are  you,  Lucile?  Please  don't  think  me  over- 
curious." 

"I  was  thirteen  last  June." 

"You  seem  wise  beyond  your  years;  I  wonder  why?" 

"I  do  not  think  I  am,  Corine,  though  I  imagine  I  am  not 
as  childish  in  my  ways  as  I  ought  to  be ;  that's  because  I  have 
been  so  much  with  grown  people.  But  I  am  not  as  wise  as 
you  are,  I  am  sure;"  smiled  Lucile  looking  up  archly  into  the 
lovely  countenance  before  her. 

"But  I  am  in  my  fifteenth  year;  I  am  almost  grown,  you 
see.  You  will  not  have  a  sweetheart  to  send  to  the  war  will 
you?" 

"0  goodness,  no!  I  am  nothing  but  a  child,  and  never 
think  of  such  things." 

"But  you  are  so  sweet  and  pretty,  Lucile;  the  boys  can- 
not help  falling  in  love  with  3'ou." 

The  roses  flattered  prettily  on  the  che«ks  of  the  coy,  art- 
less girl.  "Let  us  talk  about  the  war;"  she  answered  in  des- 
peration.     "Is  your  father  a  LTnion  man  or  a  Secessionist?" 

"A  Secessionist,  by  all  means;  you  don't  expect  him  to 
side  with  the  Yankees,  I  hop^?  Why,  isn't  i/oin-  father  a  Se- 
cessionist?" she  asked  with  an  air  of  astonishment. 

"My  father's  sympathies  are  with  the  Southern  people, 
but  he — ^is  a — Union  man. " 

"My  gracious!  you  astound  me\  what  can  be  his  reasons 
for  advocating  such  unpatriotic  sentiments?" 

"Papa's  are  not  'unpatriotic  sentiments,'  Corine;  from 
the  first,  he  opposed  Secession  and  the  war.  He  had  good  and 
just  reasons  for  doing  so." 

"I  am  surprised,"  answered  Corine,  with  a  toss  of  her 
beautiful  blonde  head,  "that  a  man  of  Mr.  Hunt's  sense  and 
education  should  labor  under  such  false  impressions." 


HOME    AGAIN.  141 

"I  have  faith  in  my  father's  judgment,"  answered  Lucile, 
with  heightened  color;  "he  understood  why  it  was  best  for  the 
South  to  keep  from  breaking  the  Union,  and  from  fighting 
against  the  old  flag. " 

"Indeed!  and  I  can't  see  how  a  Southern  man  could  enter- 
tain respect  for  the  striped  old  thing  which  has  been  for  so 
many  years  the  symbol  of  his  oppression.  Have  we  not  in  ex- 
change, that  Bonnie  Blue  Flag,  for  which  we  are  all  willing  to 
lay  down  oar  lives?  But  Lucile,  I  cannot  believe  that  you  and 
your  mother  think  and  feel  as  your  father  does. " 

"Mamma  and  I  are  great  Rebels." 

"Thank  God  the  heart  of  every  Southern  woman  beats  for 
Dixie!"  cried  Corine  with  warmth.  "Here  comes  Grace  with  a 
glass  of  lemonade,  let  us  drink  to  the  success  of  our  Cause, 
Lucile." 

Corine  tilted  the  glass  over  her  shapely  nose.  "I  have 
drained  the  bumper  to  the  triumph  of  our  Confederacy.  I  be- 
lieve we  are  in  the  right,  and  that  we  will  gain  our  Cause." 
"Suppose  we  are  defeated"  she  resumed,  after  waiting  until  the 
servant  girl  was  out  of  hearing;  "do  you  know  what  will  be 
the  consequences,  Lucile?" 

"I  am  afraid,"  replied  Lucile  reflectiugly,  "we  will  find 
ourselves  in  an  awful  condition  This  I  judge  from  what  I 
know  of  history.  Nations  who  lose  their  Cause,  find  very  little 
mercy  in  their  conquerors. " 

"If  we  are  beaten,  the  Yankees  are  going  to  set  our 
slaves  free — a  greater  misfortune  could  not  belall  us;"  sighed 
Corine,  spreading  on  her  knees,  her  shell-tintedfingers. 

"The  poor  negroes,  I  am  sure,  wouldn't  tliankXho,  Yankees 
for  taking  them  away  from  their  masters  and  comfortable 
quarters!"  exclaimed  Lucile,  in  a  voice  full  of  indignation  and 
contempt. 


142  ZULMA,    A  STORY_OP    THE    NEW    SOUTH. 

"There,  you  are  mistaken,  my  dear;  it  is  said  that  if  the 
negroes  had  so  much  as  an  Inkling  of  what  Lincoln  intends 
doing  for  them,  they  would  all  rise  against  their  masters  and 
help  the  Yankees  exterminate  them.'' 

"Why,  Corine,  they  would  do  no  such  thing!  they  think 
too  much  of  their  masters  to  do  them  such  dreadful  harm." 

"Then,  you  little  know  the  true  state  of  things  in  your 
own  country.  I  have  often  heard  papa  and  his  friends  talk  of 
secret  plans  for  general  insurrection  among  the  slaves,  and 
how  they  have  been  discovered  in  time  to  save  us  from  fearful 
massacres!" 

"Please  don't  tell  me  about  them,"  cried  Lucile  with  a 
look  of  horror.  "It  is  too  dreadful  to  think  of,  and  I  cannot 
believe  that  the  negroes  would  do  it." 

"Well,  I  hardly  believe  yours  or  ours  would  attempt  to 
cut  our  throats,  because  we  are  kind  to  our  slaves.  But  they 
wouldn't  hesitate  to  do  it  on  plantations  where  they  are  cruelly 
treated. " 

"And  I  wouldn't  blame  them  for  doing  it,"  said  Lucile, 
rising  from  her  seat.  "Let's  not  talk  about  this  any  more.  It 
makes  me  feel  bad." 

Corine  laughed  merrily.  "I  am  not  as  susceptible  as  you; 
I  have  so  often  heard  the  subject  discussed.  But  come,  I  shall 
sing  you  a  war  song  to  chase  away  all  unpleasant  impressions." 

The  girls  found  their  mothers  in  the  parterre  gathering  a 
bouquet  of  asters  and  carnations.  They  were  chatting  quite 
merrily. 

"Mamma  is  having  a  better  time  than  I,"  thought  Lucile, 
as  she  contemplated  the  smiling  countenj^nces  of  the  elder 
friends. 


ECHOES    PROM    THE    WAR.  143 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ECHOES    PROM   THE    WAR. 

THE  opening  of  the  year  '62  was  one  sadly  unpropitious  to 
the  young  Confederacy;  its  ensuing  months  brought  forth 
a  number  of  unforeseen  calamities.  The  abandonment  of 
Columbus  and  New  Madrid,  the  capture  of  Fort  Donelson  and 
Island  Number  Ten,  were  among  the  disasters  preceding  the 
fall  of  New  Orleans.  They  threatened  to  annihilate  the  hopes 
engendered  on  the  plains  of  Manassas,  and  to  destroy  the  pres- 
tige which  had  hitherto  sustained  the  Southern  armies  in  the 
unequal  conflict  in  defense  of  their  firesides  and  political 
rights.  But  the  South  was  not  to  be  daunted,  even  by  such 
overwhelming  reverses;  her  wise  and  intelligent  leaders  and 
staunch  defenders  stood  their  ground,  until  fortune  once  again 
turned  towards  them  her  smiling  countenance. 

When  the  tocsin  of  war  first  sounded,  summoning  all 
loyal  Southerners  to  the  muster  roll,  a  number  of  Pointe  Cou- 
pee's patriots,  too  impatient  to  wait  for  home  companies,  left 
the  parish  to  join  organized  regiments  marching  to  the  front. 
They  were  eager  to  meet  the  enemy  at  the  threshold,  and  to 
share  the  brunt  of  the  battle  with  those  who,  in  a  few  months, 
were  to  secure  political  freedom  for  the  South.  Girding  on 
their  swords,  they  went  forward,  marching  under  the  folds  of 
the  new-born  banner,  to  the  rescue  of  Tennessee  and  Kentucky. 
The  people's  confidence  and  assumption  lasted  until  sub- 
sequent events  warned  them  of  the  gravity  of  the  responsibili- 
ties they  had  shouldered.  They  were  rudely  awakened  from 
their  dream  of  "sixty-day  campaign."  The  elated  armies  that 
inarched  on  to  Richmond  to  compel  the  Government  to  redress 


144  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

their  wrongs,  and  force  a  recognition  of  the  sovereignty  of  the 
Confederate  States,  had  met  with  a  rebuff  which  gave  a  severe 
shock  to  their  enthusiasm,  and  convinced  them  of  the  magni- 
tude of  their  undertaking.  That  brief  and  brilliant  campaign 
they  had  foreseen  in  the  strength  of  their  heroic  faith,  had  de- 
veloped into  a  stubborn  war,  in  which  success  was  to  be 
wrested  only  from  desperate  ventures  and  unflagging  persever- 
ance. The  South  had  no  foreign  resources  to  fall  upon,  from 
which  to  recruit  her  armies.  When  the  enemy's  withering 
guns  thinned  out  the  serried  ranks,  no  plundering  hirelings 
were  pressed  forward  to  fill  them.  In, answer  to  the  country's 
call,  men  of  illustrious  birth  and  of  the  best  bone  and  sinew, 
promptly  closed  the  broken  columns  of  her  armies. 

Lucile  had  left  the  convent  a  few  weeks  previous  to  the 
capture  of  New  Orleans.  On  her  return  home,  she  was  greatly 
surprised  at  the  condition  of  aflfairs,  and  the  wonderful  devel- 
opment of  events  during  the  time  of  her  absence.  Whilst  at 
the  convent,  rumors  from  the  seat  of  war  had  reached  her  at 
long  intervals  and  in  faint  echoes.  She  knew  that  at  Sumter 
had  occurred  the  denouement  ot  that  long-pending  sectional 
issue  which  precipitated  the  country  into  a  bloody  conflict. 
The  announcement  of  one  great  victory,  at  Bull  Run,  rejoiced 
her  heart,  and  the  knowledge  that  the  Confederate  troops  were 
marching  on  to  Washington,  was  one  which  kept  her  in  a  com- 
fortable frame  of  mind,  until  she  heard  that  Faragut  had 
threatened  the  batteries  below  New  Orleans,  She  found  the 
people  at  home  wholly  absorbed  m  the  subject  which  had  be- 
come of  such  vital  importance  to  the  country.  A  new  com- 
pany was  being  organized,  and  preparations  for  defraying  the 
expenses  of  its  equipment  were  undertaken  by  the  ladies  of 
Grosse  Tete. 


ECHOES    PROM    THE    WAR.  145 

Mrs.  Gresham,  one  of  the  most  patriotic  and  influential 
personages  of  that  vicinit}',  had  generously  assumed  responsi- 
bilities, by  placing  herself  at  the  head  of  the  enterprise.  She 
called  upon  Mrs.  Hunt  one  evening  to  solicit  her  aid.  To  her 
chagrin,  the  amiable  mistress  of  "  Highland"  was  absent  on  a 
visit  to  her  venerable  parents  of  False  River.  But  she  was 
pleasantl}'  entertained  by  the  sweet  and  intelligent  Lucile,  to 
whom  she  explained  her  mission,  and  the  plan  she  had  so  judi- 
ciously prepared.  She  found  in  her  young  friend  an  enthusi- 
astic ally. 

"Now,  Lucile,"  said  the  lady,  after  the  subject  had  been 
thoroughl}^  discussed,  "get  your  guitar  and  let  me  hear  some 
of  5'our  best  songs,  that  I  may  be  able  to  decide  what  part 
of  this   programme  I  shall  assign  to  you." 

Lucile  arose  with  cheerful  alacrity  and  brought  her  in- 
strument out  on  the  gallery,  where  they  had  just  taken  their 
seats.  A  soft  breeze,  ladened  with  the  odor  of  summer  flow- 
ers, fanned  their  cheeks  and  dallied  with  the  tendrils  of  a 
clematis  vine  running  over  the  balustrade.  In  the  parterre 
below,  a  pair  of  humming  birds  glanced  like  minature  rain- 
bows among  the  lilies  and  petunias. 

"  Do  you  like  Scotch  songs?"  asked  Lucile,  passing  her 
delicate  fingers  across  the  strings  of  her  guitar,  and  casting  a 
timid  glance  at  the  aristocratic  personage  sitting  in  judgment 
over  her. 

"I  admire  them  above  all  others;  sing  ' Mary  of  Argyle, ' 
'tis  my  favorite." 

Never  was  prelude  sweeter  or  more  pathetic,  than  that 
elicited  by  the  light,  magnetic  touch  of  the  unconsciously 
gifted  performer.  Sweeter  words  were  never  sung  by  a 
more  melodious  voice. 


146  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF  ,THE   OLD    SOUTH. 

"I  have  heard  the  mavis  singing 
Her  love  song  to  the  morn; 
I  have  seen  the  dewdrop  clinging 
To  the  rose  just  newly  born." 

Mrs.  Gresham  sat  motionless,  listening  with  rapt  atten- 
tion. 

"  Dear  child!  it  is  a  treat  to  hear  you  sing  !"  she  exclaimed, 
as  soon  as  Lucile  had  struck  the  last  chord  of  the  beautiful 
aria.  "  You  sing  like  the  mavis  mentioned  in  the  song,  or  as 
if  your  soul  had  been  tuned  to  the  sentiments  therein  ex- 
pressed.." 

"Do  I?  It  is  because  [I  love  music  so  dearly,  Mrs. 
Gresham;  it' inspires  me. " 

' '  You  sing  so  charmingly,  ma  chere,  I  shall  call  upon  you 
to  sing  the  solo  in  the  '  Bonnie  Blue  Flag, '  at  the  presenta- 
tion of  our  banner." 

Lucile  passed  her  hands  nervously  across  the  strings  of 
the  guitar,  and  she  dropped  her  graceful  head  very  low,  to 
hide  the  rushing  tide  she  felt  mouniing  to  her  cheeks. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  our  dear  Confeder- 
acy," she  said.  "  Put  me  to  any  test  but  this,  Mrs.  Gresham; 
I  could  never  sing,  alone,  before  a  public  audience ;  I  shall 
break  down  and  spoil  the  whole  performance." 

The  lady  bit  her  lips  with  ill-repressed  vexation.  "I 
know  half  a  dozen  girls  aspiring  to  the  roll  I  have  offered  you, 
Lucile." 

"  Then,  why  not  give  it  to  one  of  those?"  asked  she,  with 
unwonted  eagerness. 

"  Because  none  of  them  have  suitable  voices,"  answered 
the  visitor,  rather  coolly. 


ECHOES    PROM    THE    WAR.  147 

"Dear  Mrs.  Gresham,"  said  Lucile,  -with  a  pained  ex- 
pression in  her  eyes,  "please  do  not  think  unkindly  of  me  for 
refusing  to  sing;  but  I  am  thinking — I  could  easily  get  some- 
one to  sing  that  solo;  a  person  with  a  very  good  voice,  clear 
and  melodeous — one  exactly  suited  for  the  occasion. " 

"Indeed!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Gresham,  in  an  incredulous 
tone;    "  who  can  that  be?" 

"An  acquaintance — a  music  pupil  of  mine.  She  is  to  be 
here  this  evening  to  take  a  lesson.  If  you  wait  until  she 
comes,  I  shall  ask  her  to  smg  for  you." 

The  music  pupil  arrived  in  due  time  and  Lucile  presented 
her  to  Mrs.  Gresham — Nannie  Dawsey. 

There  was  something  uncommonly  attractive  about  the 
young  girl.  The  thick,  brown  ringlets  clustering  around  her 
pretty  face,  gave  her  a  pert,  boyish  appearance,  very  much  in 
keeping  with  her  bright  eyes,  open  countenance,  and  the 
admirable  applomh  of  her  general  deportment.  As  soon  as 
she  was  seated  she  turned  to  Lucile  and  said:  "I  got  a  letter 
from  Tom  last  night,  Lucile,  I  have  it  in  my  pocket  now,"  she 
explained,  tapping  on  the  spot  where  the  precious  epistle  lay 
concealed;  "I  brought  it  for  you  to  read;  it  is  as  rich  »s  a 
pound-cake." 

"  What  does  he  write  about,  Nannie?"  asked  Lucile, 
smiling;  "something  very  interesting,  I  judge,  by  your 
looks. " 

"  He  tells  all  about  the  Confederates  evacuating  Corinth. 
You  haven't  heard  about  that,  I'm  sure." 
"Of  course  I  have." 

"  But  you  haven't  read  the  particulars.  Tom  writes  all 
about  the  dreadful  times  they've  had  since  leaving  Montery, " 
answered  Nannie,  drawing  out  the  letter.  "The  water 'round 
that  country  is  so  scarce,  and  our  poor  boys  suffered  so  much 


148  ZULMA,   A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

from  thirst,  that  they  got  to  dreaming  of  the  nice,  cool  water 
they  used  to  have  at  home.  They  had  ever  so  much  sickness 
besides;  and  the  Yankees  at  their  heels,  clear  to  Corinth. 
That  terrible  old  Halleck  followed  them  up,  never  giving  them 
time  to  breathe,  until  he  actually  cornered  them,  and  posted 
his  guns  within  a  thousand  yards  of  our  batteries.  Gracious 
me!  how  our  boys  would  have  been  peppered,  if  our  Beaure- 
gard hadn't  had  the  sense  to  slip  out  of  that  trap!  Here's 
what  Tom  says  about  it." 

Forthwith,  and  without  an}'  encouragement,  Nannie  pro- 
ceeded to  read  her  brother's  description  of  Beauregard's  noted 
feat.  "Wasn't  that  a  dandy  move,  though?"  asked  she,  re- 
folding her  letter,  and  looking  straight  at  Mrs.  Gresham.  '  'No 
other  general  but  our  Beauregard  could  have  done  it!" 

"Even  our  enemies  admit,"  remarked  Mrs.  Gresham, 
that  this  bold  and  admirably  conducted  retreat  was  a  crushing 
disappointment  to  the  Federals.  The  escape  of  that  army, 
without  bloodshed,  was  equal  to  a  victory." 

"Are  you  an  admirer  of  Beauregard,  ma'am?"  abruptly 
asked  Nannie,  fixing  her  bright  eyes  on  the  lady's  astonished 
visage. 

'  'General  Beauregard  has  been  singularly  devoted  to"  our 
Cause,"  replied  Mrs.  Gresham,  with  a  smile;  "  he  commanded 
the  troops  that  won  our  first  victory.  I  thmk  all  Southerners 
should  love  and  admire  him  for  his  brave  and  chivalric  con- 
duct, as  well  as  for  the  genius  he  has  displayed  in  managing 
our  armies." 

"lam  glad  you  think  so  well  of  him  ma'am;  and  I'm 
sorry  my  brother  is  no  longer  under  his  command.  Poor  Tom 
18  in  Vicksburg,  now.  He  says  he's  in  for  good,  and  expects 
to  dine  off  of  many  a  rat  and  mule,  before  the  war  comes  to 
an  end." 


ECHOES    FROM    THE    WAR.  149 

The  night  of  the  entertainment  was  heralded  by  a  full 
moon.  At  the  hour  of  rising,  dense  and  forboding  clouds  had 
banked  themselves  against  the  horizon,  but  the  queen  of  night 
soon  extricated  herself  from  these  vapory  folds  and  pro- 
ceeded with  majestic  serenity  on  her  journey  towards  the 
zenith.  On  that  particular  night,  she  symbolized  that  sublime 
faith  which  had  hitherto  sustained  the  Southern  people  in  their 
perilous  careei-.  The  clouds,  which  a  few  months  previous 
had  darkened  their  political  horizon,  had  since  rolled  by,  and 
the  star  of  Fortune  had  arisen  to  guide  them  in  their  struggles 
for  Independence. 

On  Grosse  Tete,  the  interminable  fields  of  corn  and  cotton 
were  flooded  with  soft,  mellow  light.  The  venerable  trees 
leaning  along  the  banks  of  the  bayou,  were  made  resplendent 
with  the  moon  beams,  and  they  quivered  like  gems,  here  and 
there,  on  the  surface  of  the  shadowy  water. 

The  little  village  of  Livonia  presen  ted  a  scene  of  bustle 
and  activity  never  witnessed  before.  The  roadside  m  the 
vicinity  of  the  hall,  was  lined  with  vehicles  of  all  sizes  and 
descriptions,  from  the  old-time  superanuated  barouches,  to 
the  stylish  and  elegant  carriages  of  Grosse  Tete's  magnates. 
The  sable  drivers  of  princely  equipages  stood  grumbling  at 
the  heads  of  their  master's  thousand-dollar  teams,  which 
chaffed  and  fretted  at  their  bits,  and  shook  with ,  impatience 
their  silver  mounted  harness.  On  the  moon-lit  grounds,  were 
booths  fabricated  with  the  tropical  palmetto,  and  decorated 
with  the  snowy  blossoms  of  the  cape-jasmine.  These  were 
presided  over  by  dark-eyed  beauties,  who  dispensed  with  grace 
and  brilliant  repartee.  Confederate  wares  and  dainties.  Herfi 
were  served  it>.  porcelain  and  cut  glass,  corn  and  potato 
coffee,  home-made  sj'rups  and  wines.  Great  pyramids  of  Con- 
federate cake  fell  in  tempting  morsels  under  the  carver's  knife. 


150         ZULMA,  A  STORY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH. 

Heaped  in  crj^stal  stands  and  magnificent  punch-bowls,  were 
delicious  peaches  floating  in  cream.  The  tempting  fragrance 
of  gumho-file  drifting  from  huge  pots,  filled  the  air  with  gas- 
tronomic invitations.  Beauty  and  youth  had  met  in  the  bril- 
liantly lighted  hall,  and  the  hot  breath  of  patriotism  had 
swept  asunder  every  social  barrier.  The  elite  of  society  had 
clasped  hands  with  their  humbler  sisterhood,  and  combined 
their  zeal  and  talent  in  the  furtherance  of  the  Cause,  so  dear 
to  every  heart  in  the  Southland. 

The  performance  was  opened  with  the  patriotic  song 
of  "Dixie,"  which  was,  at  that  time,  all  the  rage  in  the 
Southern  States.  Ttie  stanzas  were  sung  by  one  of  the 
company.  He  was  joined  in  the  chorus  by  a  goodly  number 
of  his  "comrades  in  grey,"  a  circumstance  which  tended  to  en- 
hance the  rendition  of  it,  and  which  aroused  the  audience  to 
an  outburst  of  prolonged  and  enthusiastic  cheers.  It  is  use- 
less to  go  into  details  in  describing  the  performance  that  night. 
Each  roll  in  the  programme,  from  the  overture  to  the  last 
tableau,  was  carried  out  with  exquisite  taste  and  perfection. 
Then,  came  the  intermission  of  thirty  minutes,  after  which 
the  curtain  was  to  rise  for  the  grand  finale. 

In  due  time  the  vast  audience  had  repacked  the  hall,  and 
the  tinkling  bell  was  sending  every  heart  to  its  owner's  lips. 

The  curtain  rolled  slowly  upwards,  revealing  by  degrees 
the  gorgeous  scene  behind,  through  the  medium  of  an  ethereal 
ros}'  cloud.  A  murmur  of  admiration  rippled  through  the 
hall  as  the  audience  grasped  the  significance  of  the  magnificent 
couj)  iVoeul.  The  stage,  resplendent  with  flowers  and  shim- 
mering draperies,  dawned  upon  the  sight  like  a  fairy  scene. 
In  the  midst  of  it  stood  a  group  of  young  girls,  each  bear- 
ing the  coat-of-arms  of  one  of  the  Confederate  States.  The 
flagbearer,  beautiful  as  a  houri,  stood  prominently  in  front  of 


ECHOES    FROM    THE    WAR.  151 

her  companions.  The  silkenfolds  of  her  handsoemly  wrought 
banner,  caressed  her  elegant  figure,  as  perfect  in  grace  of  pose 
as  that  of  a  statue.  In  the  rear  ot  the  stage,  a  young  girl 
sat  at  a  grand  piano.  At  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  her  skill- 
ful fingers  ran  swiftly  over  the  keys,  and  the  air  of  the  "Bon- 
nie Blue  Flag"  dropped  pearl-like,  on  the  perfumed  atmos- 
phere 

Suddenly,  a  voice  caught  the  first  note  of  the  accompani- 
ment, and  rippled  forth  as  clear,  as  pure  and  as  free  as  that  of 
a  prima-donna.  Stanza  after  stanza  went  up  on  the  wings  of 
that  sweet  voice,  interrupted  only  by  those  who  joined  in  the 
grand  chorus.  The  heart  of  the  audience  stood  still  until  the 
last  echo  of  the  song  had  faded  into  silence.  Then,  as  by 
common  impulse,  the  people  rose  to  their  feet,  applauding, 
cheering,  weeping.  A  storm  of  flowers  fell  upon  the  stage. 
A  young  girl,  with  the  face  ot  a  wild  rose,  stood  before  them, 
bowing,  smiling,  and  gathering  up  their  oflierings  so  thickly 
strewn  at  her  feet.  Lucile  looked  into  her  pupil's  radiant 
countenance  and  whispered:      "I  am  proud  of  you  Nannie." 

After  the  noise  and  excitement  had  somewhat  subsided, 
Corine  Gresham  walked  towards  the  foot-lights;  upon  her 
had  fallen  the  honor  of  presenting  the  flag  to  the  departing 
company.  All  hearts  throbbed  with  emotion  at  the  sight  of 
the  beautiful  girl,  clasping  the  staff  which  bore  aloft  the  en- 
sign of  their  love  and  predilection.  Her  delicately  chiseled 
features  and  lilj'-like  complexion,  were  crowned  by  the  aureole 
of  her  pale-gold  hair,  catching  the  light  at  every  movement  of 
her  graceful  form — aside  from  her  striking  personality, 
which  excited  general  admiration.  The  office  devolved  upon 
her  seemed  to  have  consecrated  her  to  the  Cause  the  people 
had  so  warmly  advocated.  They  listened  in  silent  awe  to  the 
touching  address  d,elivered  to  the  "  boys  in  grey ^ "  and  their 


152  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

gallant  leader.  Whether  through  coquetr}',  or  under  the  in- 
fluence of  her  patriotic  feeling,  Corine,  before  parting  with 
the  flag,  pressed  to  her  scarlet  lips,  the  tassels  which  decorated 
the  extremities  of  the  cords.  This  simple  act  once  more 
thrilled  the  spectators  into  prolonged  cheers,  until  drowned  by 
the  music  and  rousing  song  which  was  to  close  the  perform- 
ance. 

"Sons  of  freedom,  on  to  glory! 
Go  where  brave  men  do  or  die. 
Let  your  name,  in  future  story. 
Gladden  every  patriot's  eye. 

"'Tis  your  country  calls  you;  hasten! 
Backward  hurl  the  invading  foe; 
Freemen  never  think  of  danger, 
To  the  glorious  battle,  go!" 


AT   CORNE    A   CHEVREUIL.  153 


CHAPTER  XV. 


AT    CORNE    A    CHEVREUIL. 


One  morning,  in  the  latter  part  of  October,  Lucile  sat  at 
her  piano  practicing  "Acher's  Contemplations."  She  had 
drawn  the  curtains  aside,  that  she  might  lose  nothing  of  ttfe 
ideal  da}',  or  of  the  unclouded  sky  which  revealed  itselt  in 
cerulean  patches  between  the  branches  of  an  oak  near  by.  But 
she  was  in  no  humor  for  study;  her  fingers  wandered  passively 
over  the  keys  as  she  gazed  at  the  royal  dahlias  nodding  in  the 
stiff  breeze,  or  listened  to  the  shrill  notes  of  a  locust  concealed 
in  the  lichened  bark.  A  mocking-bird,  in  an  olive  bush,  began 
pouring  out  its  little  soul  in  mimic  lays.  "  It  would  never  do 
to  compete  with  you;  little  fellow,"  thought  Lucile;  with- 
drawing her  hands  from  the  board.  She  had  just  placed  be- 
fore her,  the  beautiful  song,  "All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac 
To-night." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  sang  as  well  when  you  first  started  to 
practice,  birdie?"  was  her  mental  query.  "  You  were  not  like 
us  stupid  people,  who  have  to  work  all  our  lives  improving  the 
gifts  nature  bestows  upon  us." 

Her  reverie  came  to  an  abrupt  termination  and  the  charm- 
ing coup  d'oeid  was  instantaneously  intercepted  by  a  pair  of 
soft  hands  laid  firmly  across  her  eyes. 

"'Tisyou,  Rosanna;  I  know  by  your  tapering  fingers!" 
exclaimed  Lucile,  seizing  her  friend's  hands.  "I'm  glad  you 
carte,"  she  continued,  turning  on  the  revolving  stool  and  pass- 
ing  her  arms  affectionately  around   her  waist,   "I  thought  of 


154  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

riding  out  to  your  place  this  evening  and  delivering  a  message 
I  had  for  you,  and  as  I  know  you  will  never  guess  from  whom, 
I  shall  tell  j'ou;  it  is  from  Grandpere." 

"  From  Mr.  Lafitte?"  cried  Rosanna,  with  a  glow  of  pleas- 
ure flitting  across  her  lovely  countenance,  "how  kind  of  him 
to  remember  me,  at  all." 

"He  has  taken  quite  a  fancy  to  you,  and  wants  me  to 
bring  you  out  next  Wednesday,  to  spend  a  whole  week  at  Corns 
a  ChevrenH.  They  started  the  mill  yesterday;  everything  will 
6e  in  full  blast  by  the  time  we  get  there." 

"T  shall  be  but  too  happy  to  accept  the  kind  invitation. 
I  think  the  old  place  is  the  dearest  one  on  earth  to  visit,  and 
your  grandparents,  the  sweetest  and  most  picturesque  old  peo- 
ple I  ever  met." 

"We  must  be  up  with  the  lark  Wednesday  morning," 
said  Lucile,  with  a  beaming  smile;  "an  early  drive  through 
those  woods  in  fall,  is  worth  the  sacrifice  of  one's  nap  after 
morning  coffee." 

"And  False  River  is  such  an  enchanting  region,"  replied 
Rosanna;  "so  full  of  quaint  scenery,  of  flower  gardens  and 
prett)^  sugar  plantations.  I  do  love  to  see  the  waving  cane 
fields  and  smell  the  odor  of  boiling  cane  juice." 

"Then  you  shall  soon,  I  hope,  have  the  satisfaction  of 

inhaling  a  whole  '  seasonful' of  the  tempting  odors,  for  papa 
intends  turning  into  a  suuar  planter  as  soon  as  the  war  is  over; 
and  I  now  extend  you  an  unlimited  invitation  to  spend  with 
me  the  pleasures  of  our  first  grinding." 

"That  time  may  be  a  long  way  off,  Lucile;  still,  I  shall 
pin  to  ray  heart  your  gracious  invitation.  But  I  must  not  for- 
get to  show  you  this,"  continued  the  girl,  drawing  from  her 
belt  a  slip  of  paper.      "Oh,  Mrs.  Hunt!  come  in,  I  want  you 


AT   CORNE    A    CHEVREUIL.  155 

to  guess  the  name  of  the  author  of  this  beautiful  war-song. 
It  was  written  by  some  one  living  out  on  False  River. " 

Mrs.  Hunt  was  on  the  gallery,  pruning  her  pot- plants; 
she  entered  the  room  with  her  shears  and  a  handful  of  with- 
ered leaves  and  flowers.  "I  was  not  aware, "  she  remarked, 
seating  herself  at  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  "that  False  River 
counted  poets  among  her  other  attractions;  read  the  verses — 
one  of  you — that  I  may  form  an  opinion." 

"Well,  mamma,  "said  Lucile,  who  held  the  paper,  "listen, 
the  title  of  the  song  is,  '  My  Mar3iand, ' — it  should  have 
been,  My  Louisiana — and  I  am  prejudiced  against  the  writer 
for  overlooking  his  own  state. " 

"The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland, 
Avenge  the  patriotic  gore, 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
Maryland,  my  Maryland. 

"  Dear  Mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland, 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland, 
She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain — 
'  Sic  sanpe?'' — 'tis  the  proud  refrain     - 
That  baifles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland,  my  Maryland! 
"  I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland, 
The  old  line  bugle,  fife  and  drum, 

Maryland. 
She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb. 
Huzzah:  she  spr.rns  tl.e  northern  skum; 
She  bi'eathes — she  burns — she'll  come! 
She'll  come' 
Maryland,  my  Maryland." 


156  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"The  author  is  certainly  a  patriot,  and  his  song  is  full  of 
sMrriag  sentiment,"  said  Mrs.  Hunt,  with  warmth.  "It 
would  make  a  glorious  song,  if  some  one  would  only  set  it  to 
music." 

"  But  it  has  already  been  set  to  music,  Mrs.  Hunt,  and  I 
have  sent  for  the  song.  They  say  that  the  air  is  quite  in  keep- 
ing with  these  noble  thoughts." 

"Tell  me  who  wrote  this?"'  asked  Lucile. 

"  Professor  Randall,  and  he  wrote  it  while  he  was  teach- 
ing at  the  Poydras  college.      He  is  a  Marylander. " 

"I  humbly  beg  hi«!  pardon  then,"  cried  Lucile,  "and  I 
now  honor  him  for  his  genius,  and  for  the  devotion  which  in- 
spired him  in  the  writing  of  this  beautiful  song." 


Dave  drove  the  girls  out  Wednesday  morning,  bright  and 
early.  It  was  a  perfect  day,  and  the  drive  through  the  woods 
and  over  the  hard,  smooth  roads,  was  most  enjoyable.  The 
crisp,  bracing  air  was  fragrant  with  woodland  odors,  and  the 
ditches  on  the  roadside  were  radiant  with  lupins  and  the  scar- 
let flowers  of  the  wild  sage.  As  they  bowled  along,  the  girls 
expatiatecl  on  the  variety  of  hues  assumed  by  the  different 
kinds  of  trees,  from  the  diminutive  sassafras,  in  crimson 
robes,  to  the  towering  cypress,  silhoutteing  its  purple  tufts 
against  the  sky.  On  leaving  the  woods,  they  came  across 
immense  cane  fields,  swaying  in  undulating  waves  in  the  mel- 
low sunlight.  The  metallic  cling-clang,  of  the  cutter's  knives 
mingled  harmoniousl}'  with  the  rumbling  of  wagons.  From 
the  escape  valves,  the  steam  butfetted  the  air  in  regular  and 
almost  voluptuous  sounds;  and  the  white  vapors,  rising  from 
the  kettles,  floated  off  to  sweeten  and  purify  the  earth. 

Lucde  and  llosaniia  found  Mrs.  LaStte  in  the  dining- 
room,  superintending   the    breakfast   in    preparation    for   the 


AT    CORNE    A    CHEVREUIL.  157 

white  men  emplo3'ed  at  the  sugar-house.  The  former,  with 
mischievous  playfulness,  inspected  with  pretended  longing  the 
well  provisioned  tray,  which  Plaisance,  the  housekeeper,  was 
about  lifting  to  her  turbaned  head. 

"  Dear  me!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  have  mustered  a  break- 
fast fit  for  a  king;  a  roasted  chicken,  fried  ribs,  fricasseed 
liver,  and  an  omelette  soufftee;  all  this  is  enough  to  make  the 
mouth  of  an  epicure  water.  1  declare!  here's  a  pot  of  cafe  au 
lait — most  people  have  forgotten  the  taste  of  Java.  Why, 
Grandmere,  have  you  and  Plaisance  been  in  underhand  traffic 
with  the  Yankees?" 

"Dat  good  Confed'rite  cafe,  yes;"  answered  the  domestic, 
shaking  with  good-humored  laughter;  "yo"  nose  no  smell  good 
mamzelle,  dat  not'in'  but  suga'  parch  coffee."' 

' '  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  that  this  stuff  is  made  of  p — 
par — burnt  sugar?" 

•'I  does  so,  dat  heap  better  den  corn  an'  'tater;  w'en  I 
cum  back  I  learn  you;'"  answered  the  bustling  slave,  tripping 
off  with  her  load  with  as  much  cheerfulness  and  agility  as 
though  she  had  merely  donned  her  straw  hat  and  was  off  for  a 
jaunt.  By  the  wa}-,  Plaisance  was  quite  an  important  person- 
age in  the  household ;  she  was  seamstress  and  general  manager, 
and  was  of  invaluable  worth  to  her  aged  mistress,  who,  of 
late,  had  grown  so  feeble  as  to  be  unable  to  attend  to  her  do- 
mestic duties. 

The  girls  had  been  promised  a  breakfast  equal  to  that 
prepared  for  the  workmen,  with  the  addition  of  English  dairy 
cheese,  and  a  plate  of  "baignees"  fritters,  served  with  new 
syrup.  In  the  meantime,  they  had  been  invited  to  sit  awhile 
in  grandmere's  bed-room,  a  cool  and  spacious  apartment,  filled 
with  old-fashioned  furniture.  The  most  conspicuous  of  the 
lot  were  two   imposing  bedsteads,  piled  to  a  great  height  with 


158  ZULMA,    A  STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

moss  and  feather  mattresses.  Their  seemingly  unattainable 
altitude  had  long  been  a  matter  of  wonder  and  anxious  specu- 
lation to  Lucile.  There  was  a  time  when  she  believed  that 
her  grandparents  never  went  to  bed  but  sat  in  their  fauteuUs 
night  after  night,  from  sheer  inability  to  climb  their  too  luxu- 
rious couches.  But  '■'■la piece  de  resistance'''  was  a  magnificent 
mahogany  armoir,  ornamented  with  brass  nobs  and  hinges. 
Lucile,  and  sometimes  the  little  household  darkies,  would 
stand  before  it  and  gaze  in  wonderment  at  their  tiny  figures 
grotesquely  reflected  on  its  polished  surface.  The  latter,  in 
order  to  increase  the  effect,  would  stretch  their  mouths  into 
hideous  contortions,  and  protrude  their  eyeballs  to  a  most 
alarming  extent. 

After  installing  her  grandmother  in  the  comfortable 
fauteuil^  Lucile  perched  herself  on  one  of  its  arms  and  pro- 
ceeded to  lavish  upon  lier  the  most  endearing  marks  of  affect- 
ion. She  laid  her  graceful  head  upon  the  old  lady's  shoulder 
and  gently  stroked  her  cheek.  "Dearest  Gramf mere,"  she 
said,  "you  look  so  tired,  let  me  manage  things  while  I  stay; 
you  know  I'm  a  first-rate  housekeeper." 

She  had  been  struck  with  the  change  time  had  wrought 
on  that  sweet,  placid  face;  there  were  signs  of  weariness  and 
sadness  lurking  in  those  dark  eyes.  But  grandmere  was  still 
very  lovely,  notwithstanding  the  weight  of  years  resting  on 
her  silvery  head.  Her  soft,  wavy  hair  was  still  coquettishly 
tucked  with  the  cutest  of  combs,  and  the  white  kerchief  which 
adorned  her  shoulders,  was  of  the  daintiest  fabric.  Grand- 
mere  could  not  speak  a  word  of  English,  and  Lucile  was  ap- 
pointed interpreter  for  the  time  being.  '■'■Ton  amie  me  fait 
Videe  d'une  violette,"  she  remarked  to  Lucile,  "«//«>  est  «/  cliar- 
mante,  Je  Vaime  heaucouj).'' 


AT    CORNE    A    CHEVREUIL.  159 

',  '•  Grandmere  thinks  j'ou  as  sweet  as  a  violet,  Eosanna, 
and  she  says  she  loves  you  dearly,"  echoed  Lucile,  glancing 
up  with  a  pleased  look. 

"It  would  never  do  for  me  to  tell  her  how  good  and 
beautiful  I  think  her;"  answered  Rosanna,  looking  at  her 
friend  with  a  puzzled  expression;  "she  will  believe  I  am  only 
flattering  her." 

"Oh,  no,  she  won't,"  replied  Lucile;  "she's  a  sort  of 
physiognomist,  and  can  see  at  a  glance  that  you  are  not  a 
fraud." 

"Then,  she  knows  I  love  her,"  exclaimed  the  girl,  rising 
from  her  seat.  It  was  pretty  to  see  her  fluttering  hesitation 
before  stooping  over  to  kiss  grandmere  s  soft  cheek.  Like  a  ray 
of  sunshine  streaming  over  a  wintry  landscape,  a  rosy  tinge  of 
pleasure  flitted  across  the  aged  countenance.  She  laid  her 
hand  affectionately  upon  that  of  Eosanna,  and  smilingly  drew 
her  to  a  seat  beside  her. 

Lucile  had  much  to  tell  her  grandmother.  First,  she 
gave  her  all  the  war  news,  then  told  what  pleasure  she  took  in 
making  garments  for  the  dear  Confederate  soldiers.  She  in- 
quired affectionately  about  her  precious  grandpere,  who  had 
been  ill  from  a  recent  attack  of  vertigo.  This  indisposition 
had  been  aggravated  by  moral  as  well  as  physical  causes.  Dis- 
couraging reports  from  the  seat  of  war  had  contributed  to 
harass  and  dishearten  the  aged  planter,  and  to  fill  his  life  with 
continual  worry  and  apprehension.  Lincoln's  preliminary  procla- 
mation, issued  a  few  months  previous,  had  produced  great  excite- 
ment throughout  the  Southern  States.  The  threat  in  the  emanci- 
pation document  was  received  with  conflicting  emotions.  Some 
considered  it  unconstitutional  and  protested  bitterly  against  it; 
others  waited  in  silent  and  anxious  forebodings  for  the  ap- 
proaching hour,  when   Lincoln,    with  a  fell  sweep  of  his  pen, 


160  ZULMA,    A  STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

would  despoil  them  of  their  hard-earned  and  legitimate  pro- 
perty. These  undisputed  facts  and  gloomy  outlooks  produced 
terrible  effects  on  the  old  people  of  the  parish.  Many  offered 
but  feeble  resistance  to  the  tide  of  coming  events,  and  the 
credulous  and  simple-minded  old  planters  of  False  River  were 
among  the  first  to  succumb  to  the  cruel  fortunes  of  war. 

After  partakmg  of  a  hearty   breakfast,  Lucile   and   her 
companion  started  off'  for  the  sugar  house.      They  chatted  as 
gayly  as  two  magpies,  as  they   tripped  over  the  rustling  cane 
foliage,    scattered   along  the   wagon-road.      How  pleasant  was 
the  prospect  before   them!      The  emerald  cane  field,  the  sugar 
mill  with  the  bustling  scene  around  it,  and  the  l)lue,  primitive 
woods   beyond.      The   songs  of  the  negroes  at  work,  came  in 
broken  refrains  on  the  bracing  air.       The}'  were  blissfully  free 
from  the  cares  and  anxieties,  and  ignorant  of  the  causes  which 
worried  and    harrassed   their  old  master's  mind.       They  would 
stop  work  to  tell  a  joke  or  watch  the    noisy    crows,  wheeling 
among   the  pecan   trees.      On  reaching   their  destination,  the 
girls  ran  up  the  narrow  steps  of  the  engine  room  in  search  of 
M.  Lafitte.   He  was  not  to  be  found,  nor  was  he  at  the  equipage, 
where  the  vin  de  canne  (cane  juice)  and  culte  boiled   furiously 
in  the  two  last  kettles.      They  waited  to  see  the  hands  draw  a 
strike,  then   adjourned  to  the    cooling   room,  or  pnrgerle.      A 
couple   of    bo3's   were    making  the    rounds,  dabbling  wooden 
paddles  into  the  coolers  for  a  taste  of  the  culte  (cooked  syrup), 
which  was  seen  in   different  conditions,  from  the  boiling  point 
to  the  granulated.       This  is  always  a  very  attractive   compart- 
ment  to  the   lovers  of   the  toothsome   article;    especially    to 
children,  who  are  never  debarred  from  the  privilege  of  dipping 
their  tiny   paddles   into  the   contents  of  any  of  the   coolers 
ranged  on  trestles  above  the  concave    cisterns.      J.(Ucile  and 
Rosauua  leaned  over  the  bridge,  and   gazed  with  childish  in- 


AT    CORNE    A    CHEVHEUIL.  l(jl 

terest  at  their  reflections  in  the  glassj'  surface  of  the  lake  of 
rich  syrup. 

'  'An  awful  sensation  creeps  over  me  each  time  I  see  my 
reflection  down  there,"  remarked  Lucile,  with  a  little  shudder. 
' '  It  looks  as  though  some  wicked  gnome  had  transported  me 
to  a  dismal  bottomless  region  and  turned  me  into  black 
marble." 

"What  an  extravagant  idea!"  cried  Rosanna,  laughing. 
' '  But  really,  we  do  make  strange  and  uncanny  figures  down 
there;  wouldnt  we  be  in  a  predicament  if  we  were  to  fall  in? 
"What  is  that  over  yonder,  Lucile?  some  living  thing  swimming 
towards  us — let  us  get  out  of  here,  child!  " 

"  It  is  only  a  rat  crossing  the  Acheron,"  observed  Lucile; 
"I  must  call  some  one  to  his  rescue. "  They  stepped  under 
the  shed,  where  a  dozen  young  negroes  were  industriously 
piling  cane  on  the  carrier.  The  fascinating  revolution  of  the 
pondrous  vehicle,  gliding  upwards  with  the  sinuous  motion  of 
a  serpent,  so  absorbed  the  attention  of  the  girls,  that  for  a 
time,  the  pressing  necessities  of  the  unfortunate  rodent  had 
entirely  escaped  their  memory. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Lucile,  with  a  jerk,  "  that  drowning 
rat!"  Then  turning  to  one  of  the  lads  who  was  shucking  cane, 
she  said;  "Julien,  get  a  hoe  or  something,  and  haul  out  a 
poor  rat  that  is  drowning  in  the  cistern." 

Julien  stared  at  Lucile  with  perplexity  stamped  on  his 
grinning  visage.  "We  nebber  bodder  de  rats,  little  mistis; 
wen  dey  takes  a  notion  to  drown  deyse'f,  we  nebber  hin- 
ders 'em." 

"How  vexing!     Where  is  your  master?" 

The  boy  cast  his  eyes  across  the  broad  expanse  before 
him.      "  Dere  he,"  he  cried,  pointing  to  one  of  the  headlands. 


162  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

M.  Lafitte  had  just  emerged  from  a  cut  of  tall  cane, 
which  had  completely  hidden  him  from  view.  He  had  thrown 
his  bridle  rein  across  the  pommel  of  the  saddle,  and  rode  with 
his  head  bent  low,  as  if  in  deep  meditation. 

Lucile  noticed  with  affectionate  alarm,  the  stoop  in  his 
shoulders,  and  the  air  of  weariness  with  which  he  held  himself 
in  the  saddle.  "Poor  darling!"  she  exclaimed,  wiping  the 
tears  from  her  long  lashes;  "  he  is  growing  old,  and  is  losing 
that  beautiful  and  erect  bearing  of  which  I  was  so  proud." 

"Is  your  grandfather  so  very  old,  Lucile?"  asked 
Rosanna,  with  concern;  "To  me  he  seems  the  personification 
of  strength  and  health." 

"  Grandpere  is  eighty.  It  is  too  sad  to  think  of  his  great 
age.  Before  the  war  broke  out,  he  looked  like  a  man  of 
seventy.      He  has  changed  sadly  since  then." 

With  a  face  glowing  witn  animation,  Lucile  bounded  for- 
ward to  meet  her  venerable  relative.  '■'■GTondjiere!  Old 
Precious!"  she  cried. 

"M.  Lafitte  alighted  from  his  horse  with  joyful  alacrity. 
^'Tiens!  Hens!  voila  ma  ptite!"  He  extended  his  arms,  and 
Lucile  nestled  her  pretty  head  on  his  broad  bosom. 

'■'■Com.hien  f  avals  envie  de  te  voir!''  he  exclaimed,  aft'.ect- 
ionately  kissing  her  rosy  cheeks. 

M.  Lafitte  greeted  Rosanna  with  cordiality.  "Me 
mighty  glad  you  come  see  de  ole  peoples,"  he  said,  taking  her 
by  the  hand.  "Me  keep  you  an'  Lucile  all  de  grin'in'  time, 
hey?  Big  'ouse,  big  yiard  fur  to  play.  Plenty  cane  an' 
oringe  fur  to  suck;  cuite,  vin  de  canne,  all  dat.  You  got  fur  to 
stay — w'at  you  tell,  hey?" — 

Here  Lucile  uttered  a  little  scream,  which  she  had  tried 
in  vain  to  throttle  with  her  handkerchief.  "Don't  get  mad, 
darling;    I   couldn't    help   laughing;    you   talk  to  Rosanna  as 


AT    CORNE    A    CHEVREUIL.  163 

though  she  was  a  little  girl ;  .why,  she  is  a  grown  up  young 
lady,  grandpere!  Don't  you  see  how  you  have  shocked 
her  vanity." 

''You  must  not  mind  Lucile,  Mr.  Lafitte, "  said  Rosanna, 
laying  her  hand  respectfully  on  his  arm,  "  I'm  but  too  glad  to 
be  taken  for  a  child.  I  am  one  in  disposition,  if  not  in  years, 
and  I  want  you  to  treat  me  just  as  you  do  Lucile." 

"She  my  leetle  Injin  gyrl,"  he  replied,  gathering  Lucile 
in  his  arms ;  ' '  her  papa  raise  her  in  de  woods ;  me  want  her  to 
stay  yere  fur  to  see  de  big  warl." 

The  week  at  Come  a  Chevreuil  glided  by  like  a  dream. 
The  girls,  each  day,  made  a  trip  to  the  mill,  when  it  was  in 
operation.  They  dearly  loved  to  be  with  grnadpere;  to  sit  with 
him  on  the  platform,  in  full  view  of  the  heaving  engine  and 
the  revolving  rollers,  which  munched  with  insatiable  avidity, 
the  purple  stalks  falling  incessantly  into  their  iron  maws. 
M.  Lafitte  would  each  day  peel  for  them,  the  white,  tender 
cane  he  selected  from  the  great  heaps  under  the  shed.  Some- 
times he  brought  them  a  glass  of  vin  de  canne,  pefumed  with 
fine  old  brandy,  or  a  plate  of  caramel  he  detached  from  the 
sugar-wagon  with  his  pocket-knife.  Once,  Herbert  and  Mrs. 
Hunt  came  to  spend  the  day.  The  surprise  added  much  to 
their  enjoyment.  They  never  had  a  better  time.  Why,  even 
grandmere,  grown  young  again,  had  condescended  to  climb  into 
the  cane  wagon,  which,  by  the  way,  Lucile  denominated  the 
"New  Confederate  Wagon,'  and  all  the  way  home  the  young 
folks  sang  with  glee,  the  new  version: — 

•'Come,  all  ye  sons  of  P'reedom, 
And  join  our  Southern  band; 
We're  going  to  tight  the  Yankees, 
And  drive  them  from  our  land. 
.   Justice  is  our  motto, 


164  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

And  Providence  our  guide, 
So  jump  into  the  wagon, 
And  we'll  all  take  a  ride." 

(Then  the  Chorus)  :— 

"  So  wait  for  the  wagon,  the  new  Confederate  wagon. 
The  dear  Secession  wagon,  and  we'll  all  take  a  ride." 

Grandmere's  garden  was  a  paradise,  a  mass  of  entangled 
lovliness.  If  ever  there  was  a  tree,  a  shrub,  or  an  herb,  that 
refused  to  grow  in  that  favored  spot,  Lucile  could  not  find  it 
in  her  botanical  vocabulary.  For  the  past  ten  years,  grand- 
mere  and  Plaisance  had  been  planting  flowers  for  la  p'tite;  and 
a  mania  had  seized  them,  to  thrust  into  the  ground  every  root 
or  cutting  legitimately  falling  into  their  hands.  These  had  all 
taken  kindly  to  the  soil;  they  grew,  flourished,  and  fratern- 
ized; distilling  their  odors,  and  conveying  delightful  thoughts 
and  revelations  to  the  old  people,  who,  for  so  long  had  re- 
mained unsusceptible  to  the  mysterious  beauties  of  nature. 
This  miscellaneous  assemblage  had  been  planted  without  regu- 
larity or  picturesque  arrangement,  and  had  thrived  in  all  sorts 
of  localities.  The  cabbage  bed  was  bordered  with  violets  and 
thyme.  Roses,  poppies  and  balsams  disputed  territory  with 
the  beans  and  squashes;  fruit  trees  of  every  variety,  protested 
against  the  aggressive  honej^suckle  and  climbing  roses.  There 
was  always  some  delightful  attraction  in  this  garden  of  Eden. 
In  early  spring,  yellow  bunches  of  Japan  plums  glittered  like 
gold  among  the  dark  green  foliage  of  the  trees;  then  came 
mulberries  and  plums  and  peaches;  later  on,  the  figs  and  ap- 
ples and  oranges.  Each  morning  the  girls  came  here  to  pluck 
oranges  and  gather  the  creamy  flowers  of  the  sweet  olive,  to 
strew  on  grandmere's  bed.  But  this  life  of  pleasantness  was 
fast  coming  to  a  close.  Two  days  more  were  left  of  the  mem- 
orable week;    the  morrow  was  All-Saints'  day,  and  M.  Lafilte 


AT    CORNE    A    CHEVREUIL.  165 

was  going  to  take  the  girls  to  St.  Francis'  Church,  that  they 
might  witness  the  touching- and  beautiful  ceremony  of  the 
decoration  of  the  graves.  Lucile  and  Rosanna  were  anxious 
to  visit  the  ancient  and  historic  church,  and  the  cemeter}' 
where  reposed  the  ashes  of  the  oldest  inhabitants  of  the 
parish. 

A  capacious  bedroom,  adjoining  that  of  the  aged  couple, 
had  been  allotted  the  girls.  The  white  walls  and  immaculately 
clean  floor,  received  each  morning  a  brief  visit  from  the  sun, 
which  straggled  in  from  between  the  leaves  of  a  magnificent 
catalpa,  shading  the  front  gallery.  Lucile  was  too  fond  a  lover  of 
the  cheerful  sunlight  to  confine  herself  to  this  dingy  apart- 
ment. With  her  grandmother's  permission,  she  occupied  dur- 
ing the  day  Ja  chambre  a  ronet,  as  it  was  styled,  because  an 
ancient  spinning-wheel,  had  tor  years  held  undisputed  posses- 
sion of  one  of  the  corners.  As  this  room  was  at  the  gable  end, 
with  its  windows  facing  the  south,  the  sunbeams  came  dancing 
in  at  their  own  sweet  will,  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  Sometimes 
they  made  a  leap  for  the  mantle-piece,  where  stood  an  old  French 
clock,  with  its  hands  forever  pointing  to  half-past  two;  then 
again  they  crept  under  the  treadle  of  the  wheel,  as  if  to  steal  its 
mouldering  memories.  This  family  relic  possessed  a  strange 
fascination  to  Lucile.  From  the  time  of  her  earliest  child- 
hood, she  remembered  how  her  grandmother  used  to  set  it  a 
humming  for  her  special  delectation.  When  she  grew  older, 
and  could  work  the  treadle  herself,  it  became  her  chief  source 
of  amusement  during  her  visits  to  her  grandparents.  But  she 
had  been  told  since,  of  a  wierd  superstition  connected  with  it, 
and  she  ceased  to  tamper  with  the  thing.  The  tradition  was, 
that  the  wheel,  without  human  intervention,  whirled  for  a  min- 
ute or  two,  some  weeks  previous  to  the  occurence  of  a  death 
in  the  family.     Its  premonitory  gyrations  were  heard  a  fort- 


166  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

night  prior  to  Eugene  Lafltte's  untimel}'  end;  and  it  faithfully 
predicted  the  approachino;  death  of  each  member  who  so  closeh'^ 
followed  him  to  the  bourne  of  shadows. 

It  was  All-Hallowe'en;  both  girls  were  sitting  in  this 
chamber;  Rosanna  had  been  stitching  lace  on  one  of  Mrs. 
Lafitte's  neckkerchief s ;  she  arose,  laid  it  on  the  bed,  and 
t-moothly  folded  it.  Fearing  to  disturb  Lucile,  who  was  dili- 
gently writing  a  letter,  she  stepped  softly  around  the  apart- 
ment, examining  the  quaint  and  nearly  obliterated  pictures  on 
the  wall,  and  other  curious  objects  about  her.  When  she 
came  to  the  spinning-wheel,  she  placed  her  hand  upon  it  and 
gave  it  a  turn;  it  began  to  whirl  with  a  dismal,  creakmg 
sound. 

"0,  my  goodness,  don't!"  Lucile  cried,  with  unwonted 
agitation  in  her  manner. 

"What's  the  matter,  Lucile?  you  look  as  though  I  had 
awakened  to  life  one  of  your  ancestors." 

' '  I  cannot  bear  to  see  that  wheel  turning;  please  do  not 
touch  it  again,  Rosanna!" 

"Certainly  not,  since  it  makes  you  so  nervous." 

Lucile  had  not  told  her  friend  of  the  superstition  associ- 
ated with  the  wheel. 

"Goon  with  your  writing,"  said  Rosanna,  "  while  I  sit 
here  and  peel  these  oranges;  we  shall  eat  them  when  you  get 
through.'' 

But  Lucile  laid  down  her  pen  and  silently  watched  the 
autumn  leaves  pirouetting  in  the  air.  "  We  may  as  well  give 
up  the  idea  of  going  to  Pointe  Coupee  to-morrow,"  she  re- 
marked, after  a  moment's  abstraction;  "we  are  going  to  have 
dreadful  weather  to-night;  listen  to  the  wind  howling  around 
the  corner  I  " 


AT    CORNE    A    CHEVBEUIL.  167 

"Then  don't  finish  your  letter  this  evening,"  replied 
Rosanna,  displaying  the  tempting  slices  of  the  oranges  on  the 
back  of  Tennyson's  poems.  "  Let  us  finish  the  Princess  be- 
fore supper;  we  have  only  three  pages  more  to  read." 

After  supper  the  girls,  as  was  their  wont,  spent  the  even- 
ing in  grandmere's  room.  They  were  unusually  merry  and 
played  '■'■  Retrouvons  nos  Moittons''  with  the  old  folks.  Grand- 
pere  could  not  compete  in  agilitj'  with  his  frisk}',  frolicsome 
guests;  and  the  way  they  got  him  in  the  brambles,  was  a  thing 
to  laugh  at,  and  they  did  laugh,  until  the  tears  streamed  down 
their  rosy  cheeks.  Then  grandmere  got  them  to  sing.  Lucile, 
in  a  sweet,  pathetic  voice,  sang  her  favorite,  '■'■C'est  Toi," 

Ce  qu'il  me  faut  a  moi. 
Pour  que  men  triste  coeur 
Renaisse  a  Tesperance 
Et  reprenne  courage. 
C'est  le  bois  fremissant 
Et  son  paisible  ombrage 
On  Ton  reve  au  bonheur, 
Ce  qu'il  me  faut  a  moi — 
C'est  toi.     C'est  toi." 

When  these  two  came  to  bid  the  venerable  couple  good- 
night, M.  Lafitte  said  to  them,  with  a  voice  full  of  emotion, 
"If  only  I  could  keep  j'ou  here,  always,  I  should  never  grow 
older  or  brood  over  coming  troubles.  Mo7i  Dieu,  how  sad  it 
will  be  after  you  are  gone!  " 

That  night  Lucile  was  awakened  from  her  slumbers  by  the 
noise  of  the  wind  whistling  viciously  around  the  house.  As 
she  listened,  it  increased  in  violence,  and  began  dashing  itself 
with  impotent  rage  against  the  front  doors.  This  brought  on 
a  disinclination  to  sleep  and  made  her  restless.  "I  shall  get 
up  and  read  a  while,"  she  thought,  rising  softly,  for  f6ar  of 


168  ZULMA.    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

waking  her  friend.  She  struck  a  match,  lighted  the  tallow 
candle  on  the  mantle-piece,  and  tip-toed  into  the  next  room, 
where  she  had  left  her  books.  She  placed  the  light  on  the 
table  near  the  window,  and  stood  for  a  moment  watching  the 
murky  clouds  and  the  trees  swaying  in  the  wmd.  The  rain 
splashed  in  fitful  gusts  against  the  glass,  and  a  few  rain  drops 
sjinttered  m  her  face.  The  sight  of  her  writing  materials  re- 
minded her  of  the  unfinished  letter.  '■'■Cest  vraiT'  she  ex- 
claimed, "lean  finish  ray  letter;  tomorrow  morning  ^ra»(/- 
pere  will  send  it  to  the  postoffice. "  She  seated  herself,  dipped 
the  pen  in  the  ink,  and  wrote: — 

' '  I  left  ort'  here,  dear  Madge,  to  eat  an  orange  and  chat 
with  a  friend,  who  is  spending  a  week  here  at  Come  a  Chevreuil. 
I  have  already  spoken  to  you  of  my  venerable  relatives,  but  1 
never  could  give  you  a  correct  idea  of  their  peaceful  life  here 
in  this  old  homestead,  full  of  relics  and  interesting  souvenirs. 
Our  visit  is  nearly  ended  and  it  saddens  me  to  think  how  lonely 
the  old  people  will  be  after  we  are  gone.  They  are  both  quite 
old  and  feeble,  and  in  sore  need  of  someone  to  cheer  them  up, 
especially  in  those  war  times,  when  fear  and  excitement  alone, 
would  have  a  tendency  to  shorten  their  lives.  The  thought 
is  a  source  of  much  un happiness  to  me.  I  began  this  letter 
before  supper;  after  spending  a  few  hours  with  my  grand 
parents,  I  went  to  bed  and  was  soon  lulled  to  sleep  by  the 
leaves  rustling  over  the  gallery  floor.  I  love  to  hear  them  at 
night,  when  I  am  half  asleep.  I  make  believe  they  are  spirits 
madly  tumbling  about  in  the  darkness.  It  is  a  delicious  kind 
of  fear  which  overcomes  me  and  makes  me  drowsy.  I  was 
awakened  by  the  noise  the  wind  made  among  the  catalpa  trees. 
As  sleep  had  fled  from  my  eyes,  I  got  up  with  the  intention  of 
watching  the  storm,  Ijut  the  sight  of  this  letter  reminded  me 
of  my  promise  to  you." 


AT    CORXE    A    CHEVBEUIL.  169 

Suddenh'  a  familiar  sound  fell  upon  Lucile's  ear.  '•Click- 
clack,"  as  though  the  old  wheel  was  making  a  supreme  effort  to 
start.  Her  pen  was  arrested,  and  her  heart  stood  still.  A  deathly 
silence  succeeded.  "There  is  a  mouse  fumbling  in  that  cor- 
ner,"  Lucile  half  whispered  to  herself;  "T  wish  he  would  go 
about  his  business." 

The  intruder,  however,  had  scattered  her  ideas.  She 
dipped  her  pen  in  the  ink  and  prepared  to  resume  her  writing. 
But  it  was  no  easy  task  to  divert  her  mind  from  the  ominous 
sound,  which  had  filled  her  with  vague  misgivings. 

"Click-clack-click;''  the  wheel  to  her  horroi",  now  broke 
into  a  furious  whirl.  A  cold  blast,  generated  b^'  its  swift  rev- 
olutions, struck  her  bloodless  cheeks,  and  a  black  pall  fell  be- 
tween her  and  the  light.  Lucile  fell  in  a  faint  across  the 
table. 


A^  this  period  of  the  war,  coffee  was  a  scarce  article  in 
most  families,  but  Mrs.  Lafitte  hoarded,  as  misers  hoard  gold, 
a  certain  quantit,y  of  fine  coffee  left  from  an  old  and  plentiful 
supply,  a  portion  of  which  was  periodically  roasted  and  carefully 
pulverized  in  a  wooden  mortar  made  for  that  special  purpose. 
A  decoction  of  this  priceless  article  was  served  as  a  tonic  to  each 
member  of  ihe  household  at  an  early  hour  of  each  morning. 
On  All  Saints'  day,  Plaisauce,  as  usual,  walked  into  the  girls' 
room  carrying  the  plateau  upon  which  she  had  placed  the  two 
antique  coffee  cups.  The  beverage  instantaneously  filled  the 
apartment  with  its  delicious  aroma. 

"Yere  yo'  cafe,  inamzeUrs.'''  she  called,  pulling  at  the 
quilt  and  giving  a  vigorous  shake  at  the  foremost  occupant  of 
the  bed. 


170  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Lucile  opened  her  eyes  and  stared  at  Plaisance  with  a 
bewildered  expression.  ' '  Was  it  you  who  brought  me  back  to 
bed?"  she  asked  in  a  tremulous  tone  of  voice. 

"Me  bring  you  back  ware,  ^tite  mamzelleV 

"  Brought  me  back  from  that  room  after  I  fainted." 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Lucile?"  demanded  Ros- 
anna,  sitting  up  in  bed  and  looking  at  her  companion  with 
eyes  expanded  with  astonishment.  "Who  said  you  had 
fainted?" 

"  I  know  I  did,  for  I  don't  remember  coming  back  to 
bed." 

"  You  have  been  lying  here,  sound  asleep  all  night,  Lu- 
cile; you  must  lave  dreamed  of  having  fainted." 

Lucile  gave  no  answer,  but  rolled  out  of  bed  and  rushed 
into  the  adjoining  room.  There  were  the  writing  materials, 
just  as  she  had  left  them  before  going  to  supper.  She  snatched 
from  the  table  the  unfinished  letter,  expecting  to  find  the  lines 
she  had  written  at  that  terrible  moment  in  the  night,  but  not 
a  word  could  she  find  of  the  subject  which  had  made  such  a 
profound  impression  on  her  mind.  A  leaden  weight  seemed 
lifted  from  her  soul,  she  laid  down  the  epistle  with  a  fervent 
"  Thank  God!  it  was  only  a  dream!"  But  her  eye  fell  upon 
the  wheel;  its  outlines,  half  shrouded  in  shadows,  seemed  in- 
vested with  supernatural  powers.  She  was  seized  with  an 
indefinable  dread  lest  she  would  once  again  become  the  un- 
willing spectator  of  its  sinister  proceedings.  Stifling  a 
little  nervous  cry,  she  sprang  back  into  her  own  room,  ex- 
claiming, "It  was  only  a  dream,  Rosanna,  only  a  dream!" 


JOURNEYING    TO    SAINT    FRANCIs'    CHURCH.  171 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

JOURNEYING    TO    SAINT    FRANCIs"  CHURCH. 

/^N  a  oold  dreary  day  in  January,  a  funeral  cortege  slowly 
^-^  wended  its  way  along  the  bank  of  False  River.  The 
waters  no  longer  reflected  the  lajji's  lazuli  of  the  sk}-,  or  the 
rose  and  purple  tints  of  luminous  clouds,  but  flung  themselves 
in  tumultuous  waves  against  the  shore,  sobbing  with  moan 
and  low-voiced  misereres. 

"Draw  your  hood  closer  over  your  face,  daughter;  do 
you  not  feel  the  wind?"  asked  Mr.  Hunt  of  Lucile,  who  sat  be- 
side him  in  the  carriage  next  to  the  hearse. 

"I  feel  nothing,  papa,"  she  answered,  opening  for  a  mo- 
ment, her  large,  sad  eyes;  "nothing  but  a  cruel  pain  at  my 
heart;"  and  her  dark  lashes  dropped  heavily  on  her  wan  cheeks, 
closing  the  prospect  on  those  orbs,  once  so  alert  and  eager  to 
grasp  and  speculate  on  every  passing  object.  Mr.  Hunt  gazed 
with  concern  upon  the  sweet,  tear-stained  face  of  his  child, 
hut  made  no  effort  to  comfort  her.  He  knew  that  grief  had 
laid  a  crushing  hand  upon  her  young,  faithful  heart,  and  it 
was  best  to  leave  her  to  the  luxury  of  her  sorrow. 

He  sat  silently  watching  the  dull,  monotonous  scenery 
through  which  they  passed — a  strip  of  woods  stretching 
between  the  town  of  New  Roads  and  the  cultivated  lands  on 
the  bank  of  the  Mississippi  river.  In  some  places  the  road 
was  so  narrow  that  the  branches  of  trees  met  half  way  across, 
forming  an  arch  overhead.  The  trailing  moss,  under  the  im- 
pulsion of  the  fierce,  north  wind,  now  lashed  and  tormented 


172  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

the  naked  trees,  theu  tell  resignerlly  in  the  air,  like  melan- 
choly banner's  weeping  over  the  dead.  The  long  line  of  car- 
nages plodding  through  the  soft  black  mud,  had  reached  the 
open  country;  a  locality  abounding  in  flourishirg  sugar  plan- 
tations. As  they  approached  their  destination,  Mr.  Hunt 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  steeple  of  old  Saint  Francis"  Church, 
peering  from  among  an  assemblage  of  evergreen  pines,  cedars 
and  dark-hued  cypresses.  They  over-shadowed  the  graves  and 
monuments,  crowding  each  other,  and  keeping  vigil  over  the 
sleepers,  murmuring,  sighing,  and  intoning  dirges  or  soothing 
psalmodies.  The  first  stroke  of  the  tolling  bell  aroused  Lucile 
from  her  apparent  apathy ;  she  started  in  her  seat  and  cast  a 
look  full  of  anguish  upon  the  black  liearse  in  front  ot  her. 
'■'■GrandjjereV'  she  exclaimed  in  a  low,  suppressed  tone  of 
voice;     "0,    my   precious  grnvdpere!" 

"Lucile,  darling!"  said  her  father,  passing  his  arm 
around  her  shivering  form,  "control  your  feelings;  you  must 
not  grieve  thus;  you  will  make  yourself  ill." 

"0,  papa!  T  cannot  help  grieving  for  him— my  own — 
own — dearest  gravdperer  she  answered,  turning  upon  him  a 
look  of  piteous  entreaty ;  he  loved  us  so,  papa,  and  we  shall 
never  see  him  again — never — never!"' 

Mr.  Hunt  felt  the  justice  of  her  reproach  and  remorse 
smote  his  heart  like  a  dagger.  ' '  I  know  but  too  well  how 
legitimate  is  your  sorrow,  Ijucile,  for  he  was  worthy  of  our 
deepest  love  and  deserves  our  lasting  regret.  But  it  is  wrong 
to  deplore  his  death  as  an  eternal  separation;  shall  we  not 
follow  hlra  sooner  or  later,  and  be  reunited  to  him  in  another 
life?" 

"Grod  grant  it!"  she  answered  with  great  earnestness; 
then,  after  a  brief  silence,  she  remarked:  "  He  had  promised  to 
bfing  us  here  next  Easter,  and  I  was  looking  forward  tO  that 


JOURNEYING    TO    SAINT    FRANCIs'    CHURCH.  173 

daj'  with  such  pleasant  anticipations;  little  did  T  dream  of 
coming  with  him  thus — with  his  poor  hands  crossed  over  his 
breast,  and  his  dear  face  forever  hidden  from  my  sight — so 
soon,  too — so  soon.  "  M.y  precious! ''  here  she  burst  into  an 
uncontrolable  fit  of  sobbing.  Her  father  allowed  her  to  give 
full  vent  to  her  emotions;  knowing  that  nothing  else  could 
relieve  her  overburdened  heart. 

Mr.  Lafitte's  remains  were  carried  to  the  rear  of  the  cera- 
tery,  and  placed  in  a  large  tomb,  with  those  of  his  father  and 
brothers.  After  the  funeral  solemnities,  the  assistants  dis- 
persed about  the  place  and  strolled  along  the  well  kept  paths 
and  alleys.  Some  lingered  in  prayer  near  the  resting  places 
of  friends  or  relatives;  others,  rambling  OA'^er  the  grounds, 
examining  inscriptions  on  the  tombs  or  on  some  half  crumb- 
ling monument — "A  relic  left  like  a  wreck  upon  the  distant 
shores  of  time. "  Wreaths  of  immortelles  and  other  decor- 
ative mementoes,  though  faded  and  wind-tossed,  still  hung  to 
some  of  the  monuments.  As  Mr.  Hunt  walked  through  these 
silently  crowded  aisles  thickh'  strewn  with  "  memory's  offer- 
ings," he  pondered  on  the  salutary  influence,  such  touching 
devotion  might  produce  on  the  living,  and  regretted  that  the 
custom  was  confined  to  Catholic  congregations. 

On  their  return  from  Pointe  Coupee,  Lucile  found  her 
grandmother  in  a  very  critical  condition.  She  had  just  recov- 
ered from  a  swoon  and  la}-  with  her  languid  eyes  fixed  on  the 
clock  on  the  mantle-piece.  One  of  the  neighbors,  who  had 
been  standing  by  Mr.  Lafittes  deathbed,  had  arrested  the 
pendulum  at  the  moment  of  his  demise.  It  was  a  strange  co- 
incidence, the  hands  pointed  precisely  to  "  half -past  two,"  the 
hour  denoted  by  the  old  clock  in  "  la  chambre  a  rouet.''  Mrs. 
Hunt  and  Lucile  made  generous  and  heroic  efforts  to  subdue 
their  own  grief,  for  the  sake  of  the  dear  one  whose  loss  was 


174  ZULMA,   A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

irreparable,  and  for  whose  wounded  heart  tlie  earth    held    no 
balm. 

The  night  after  the  funeral,  Mrs.  Hunt  sat  at  her  mother's 
bedside,  listening  sadly  to  her  spasmodic  breathing  and  to  the 
low,  pitiful  moans,  which  occasionally  escaped  her  pale,  thin 
lips.  Lucile  kept  watch  with  her  mother,  but  from  time  to 
time,  she  crept  into  ber  own  room  to  give  vent  to  her  overflow- 
ing heart.  There  were  so  many  things  around  her  to  remind 
her  of  the  dear,  departed  one;  tliey  haunted  her  and  prayed 
upon  her  mind,  with  sharp  and  cruel  persistence.  Once,  her 
eyes  fell  upon  her  grandfather's  old  hat,  hanging  upon  the 
familiar  wooden  peg;  her  heart  gave  a  great  throb,  and  a 
smothered  cry  escaped  her  lips.  Iler  mother,  with  an  inquir- 
ing glance,  turned  her  colorless  face  towards  her.  But  the 
poor  child  had  already  buried  her  head  into  her  lap,  trying  to 
stifle  the  convulsive  sobs  which  shook  her  delicate  frame.  Her 
prolonged  vigils  and  exhausting  fatigues,  at  length  overpow- 
ered her,  and  she  lost  in  profound  sleep,  all  consciousness  of 
her  sad  surroundings,  Mrs.  Hunt  and  Plaisance  watched  with 
anxious  solicitude,  the  beloved  patient,  until  she,  too,  to  their 
great  relief,  fell  into  trancpiil  slumber.  Thus,  that  dreary, 
desolate,  and  interminable  night,  with  its  leaden-footed  hours, 
passed  through  the  echoless  portals  of  eternity. 

Mrs.  Hunt  walked  softl}^  to  the  window  and  lifted  the 
curtain  to  take  a  peep  at  the  outer  world,  hoping  against  hope, 
to  find  some  shred  with  which  to  bind  her  bleeding,  disconso- 
late heart.  Far  away,  across  the  river  and  high  above  the 
misty  woods,  dawn  was  approaching.  The  curtains  of  myste- 
rious night  had  been  torn  asunder,  and  a  solitary  star  flashed 
in  the  crimson  of  a  crystal  sky.  Mrs.  Hunt  fixed  her  earnest 
gaze  on  the  brilliant  spectacle,  and  her  thoughts  wondered  in 
solemn  conjectures,  beyond  earthly  cares  and  tribulations.    This 


JOURNEYING    TO    SAINT    FRANCIS'    CHURCH.  I'i5 

earth,  she  knew,  was  but  an  atom,  compared  with  other  systems 
in  the  universe;  but  now  it  seemed  to  her  only  "a  vale  of 
tears,  "through  which  mortals  journeyed  on  their  way  to  a  happier 
sphere  of  life.  "Perhaps,"  she  mused,  "God  has  planted  his 
throne  in  the  center  of  this  glorious  universe,  and  these  shining 
stars  are  in  reality,  the  many  mansions  alluded  to  by  our  Divine 
Saviour.  And  it  might  be  that  my  dearest  father  has  already 
reached  one  of  these  beautiful  abodes.  Wherever  he  be,  God 
grant  that  we  may  some  day  rejoin  him.  His  guileless,  up- 
right and  toilsome  career  on  earth,  certainly  obtained  for  him 
a  blissful  eternity ;  and  none  of  his  loved  ones  need  fear  to 
meet  him  in  the  realm  of  his  new  existence.  '  Here  she  was 
overcome  bj'  the  tenderness  of  her  emotions;  her  bosom  heaved 
and  sorrowful  tears  streamed  abundantly  down  her  cheeks. 
She  dropped  the  curtain  and  returned  to  her  mother's  bedside, 
where  she  knelt  with  her  rosary  in  her  hand.  She  was  still 
engaged  in  prayer,  when  Mrs.  Lafitte  awoke.  On  looking  up, 
Mrs.  Hunt  was  struck  with  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in 
her  mother's  appearance  during  the  short  interval  consecrated 
to  her  devotions.  The  dull,  hopeless  expression  had  vanished, 
and  one  of  pathetic  sweetness  and  resignation  bad  taken  its 
place. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  dearest  mother?"  asked 
Mrs.  Hunt,  bending  with  loving  solicitude  over  the  gentle 
sufferer. 

Mrs.  Lafitte  gazed  at  her  with  a  confused  and  perplexed 
expression  in  her  eyes.  "Why  did  you  awake  me,  Elise?  I 
was  happier  in  my  sleep;  I  am  sorry  you  brought  me  back  to 
the  sad  realities  of  this  wretched  life." 

' '  Dearest,  do  not  speak  so ;  your  words  distress  me.  Do 
you    not   love    us  enough   to   make  an  effort  to  regain   your 


176         ZULMA,  A  STORY  OF  THE  OLD  SOUTH. 

strength  and  health  that  you  might  live  for  our  sake — Lueile's 
and  mine?" 

' '  Dear  child,  if  you  knew  what  has  just  passed  between 
us,  you  would  not  urge  me  to  stay." 

"You  have  been  dreaming,  mother." 

"You  are  mistaken.  I  never  was  more  conscious  of  my 
sorrowful  existence  than  at  the  moment  your  father  appeared 
to  me.  He  stood  here,  at  my  bedside,  gazing  on  me  with  a 
look  full  of  tenderness — then  he  laid  his  hand  upon  mme,  say- 
ing: 'Dear  wife,  it  is  not  for  long;  death  shall  not  separate 
us!'  The  touch  of  his  hand  was  as  palpable  to  me  as  that  of  a 
living  being,  Elise;  and  I  felt  it  for  a  considerable  time  after 
he  had  spoken." 

It  was  Mrs.  Hunt  who,  in  kneeling,  had  laid  a  lingering 
hand  upon  her  mother's.  She  knew  that  this  external  impres- 
sion had  contributed  to  intensify  the  conviction  of  the  imagi- 
nary presence;  she  opened  her  lips  to  undeceive  her  mother, 
but  the  serene  and  heavenly  expression  of  her  countenance  dis- 
concerted her.  She  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  dispel  the 
sweet  delusion  which  had  served  to  assuage  her  grief  and  had 
buoyed  up  her  spirits  by  the  hope  of  a  speedy  reunion. 

"It  may  be,  dear  one,"  she  answered,  stroking  the  soft 
white  hair  of  the  aged  widow,  "that  God  does  permit  the 
spirits  of  those  we  love  to  hover  around  us  during  the  first 
period  of  our  bereavement,  to  soothe  our  souls  and  comfort  us 
by  the  intuitive  knowledge  of  their  presence.  Great  and  good 
men  have  believed  this,  and  written  most  touchingly  on  the 
subject."     She  remembered  Longfellow's  beautiful  lines: 

"Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  the  open  door; 
The  beloved,  the  true  hearted 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more." 


JOURNEYING    TO    SAINT    FRANCIS     CHURCH.  1  (  i 

"But  dearest  mother,"  she  continued,  "our  imagination 
has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  such  things ;  our  dreams  are  very 
vivid,  and  lead  us  to  believe  as  real  experiences,  what  are  only 
the  creations  of  a  morbid  brain,  or  the  effects  of  nervous  debil- 
ity." 

"Elise,  my  child,"  answered  her  mother,  after  a  moment's 
reflection,  "the  visit  I  received  from  your  father,  was  not  a 
mental  delusion,  but  a  warning  of  my  approaching  death,  a  call 
to  which  I  shall  gladly  respond.  I  know  that  I  shall  never 
more  rise  from  this  bed." 

"0  mother,  do  not  leave  us!  what  shall  we  do  without 
you?"  cried  Mrs.  Hunt,  bursting  into  tears.  "Have  we  not 
enough  to  suffer  from  the  blow  that  has  just  fallen  upon  us?" 

"You  will  have  your  husband  and  child  to  comfort  you, 
my  daughter,  but  I  am  alone,  and  I  cannot  live  without  him. 
This  house  will  seem  like  a  tomb,  and  I  shall  feel  like  a  ghost 
haunting  its  emptiness.  How  can  you  ask  me  to  lead  such  a 
dreary,  hopeless  existence?"' 

"But  mother,  my  dearest  mother,  you  will  not  remain 
here  and  lead  this  lonely  life.  As  soon  as  you  are  restored  to 
health,  you  shall  go  with  us  to  Grosse  Tete,  where  your  chil- 
dren shall  comfort  and  cherish  you,  and  help  you  to  bear  the 
cross  God  has  seen  fit  to  lay  upon  your  shoulder. " 

"O  Elise,  I  pray  you!"  cried  the  aged  woman  clasping  her 
hands  in  pitiable  supplication;  '  'do  not  take  me  away  from  my 
old  home.  It  is  so  dear- to  me!  A  thousand  associations  bind 
it  to  my  poor,  bruised  heart.  Let  me  stay  until  I  die — it  will 
not  be  for  long. " 

There  was  a  look  of  distress  in  her  sunken  eyes,  and  a 
peculiar  contraction  around  her  mouth  which  filled  Mrs.  Hunt 
with  apprehension.  She  hastened  to  awake  Plaisance,  who 
had  fallen  asleep  on  a  pallet  in  an  adjoining  room.     The  opiate 


178  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

they  administered,  and  their  soothing  and  reassuring  words, 
soon  produced  their  desired  effects;  and  the  exhausted  patient 
h\y  for  some  time  in  comparative  tranquility.  After  a  pro- 
longed stillness,  Mrs.  Lafitteonce  more  spoke  to  her  daughter. 
"You  are  a  Christian,  Elise;  you  must  make  up  your  mind  to 
submit  yourself  to  the  will  of  God  and  help  me  to  prepare  my- 
self for  this  last,  long  voyage.  Do  not  weep,  do  not  grieve 
for  me,  my  dear  daughter.  Shall  we  not  meet  again  in  a  bet- 
ter world?  I  wish  to  receive  the  Sacraments,  that  I  may  be 
strengthened  in  my  passage  through  the  dark  valley — that  our 
Saviour   himself  may  lead  me,  and  restore  me  to  my  beloved. " 

A  week  passed.  To  Lucile  and  her  mother  it  was  one 
clogged  with  tears  and  loneliness  of  heart.  The  precious  life 
they  strove  to  retain,  flickered  away  like  a  fire  left  without 
fuel.  Day  by  day,  they  saw  her  strength  declining  and  her 
life  ebbing  away  slowly  and  painlessly.  There  was  in  her  eyes 
a  look  of  longing  and  eager  expectancy,  like  that  of  one  watch- 
ing for  the  hour  of  her  deliverance.  One  evening  Mrs.  Hunt 
and  Lucile  stood  near  her  with  anxious  and  affectionate  solici- 
tude depicted  in  their  weeping  eyes.  The  pallid  countenance 
of  the  dying  one  was  lit  up  with  a  supernatural  light  which 
filled  them  with  awe.  Suddenly,  she  stretched  her  feeble 
hands  towards  them:  "Ehse — Lucile — my  children— help 
me!"  she  faintly  cried;  "help  me  to  cross  the  cold  water — stay 
with  me  until  I  pass  over — I  see  him  beckoning  on  the  shore 
beyond!" 

Mrs.  Hunt  lifted  her  dying  parent  from  her  pillow,  and 
laid  her  head  upon  her  own  throbbing  bosom.  "Do  not  fear, 
mother;  i  shall  not  leave  you;  my  loving  arms  are  around  you; 
I  shall  hold  3'ou  until  you  reach  the  shore." 

It  was  a  calm,  beautiful  afternoon  in  February.  A  blue, 
subtle  haze  hung  over  the  earth  like  a  veil,  and  the  rays  of  the 


JOURNEYING    TO    SAINT    FRANCIS'    CHURCH.  179 

setting  sun  filtered  through  the  opalescent  air,  darting  down- 
wards their  golden  shafts  as  if  pointing  to  bewildered  souls, 
the  shining  way  to  the  throne  of  God.  The  pure  spirit 
of  grajidmere,  perchance,  had  fallen  into  one  of  these  stream- 
ing paths,  for  the  casket  of  her  white  soul  lay  cold  and  still  in 
her  deserted  home. 

Once  again  the  black  hearse  with  its  trappings  of  woe, 
passed  through  the  wide  gates  between  the  antled  horns.  At  the 
sight  of  the  lugubrious  vehicle  destined  to  carry  away  the  re- 
mains of  their  beloved  old  mistress,  the  negroes  congregated 
about  the  yard  and  gallery,  raised  their  voices  in  despairing 
cries  and  lamentations.  In  those  da3^s,  when  a  kind  master 
died,  his  slaves  were  filled  with  consternation;  for  the  very  in- 
dulgence which  lightened  their  burdens  and  mitigated  the  trials 
of  their  condition,  served  to  accentuate  their  sufferings  in  a 
more  distressful  and  hopeless  servitude.  The  estate,  m  pass- 
ing into  other  hands,  generally  necessitated  the  sale  of  this 
living  chattel,  and  consequently,  was  followed  by  heart-render- 
ing scenes,  and  by  separations  more  cruel  than  death.  Although 
the  Lafitte  negroes  knew  that  their  young  mistress,  Mrs.  Hunt, 
was  the  sole  heir  to  the  estate,  and  that  her  husband  was  con- 
sidered one  of  the  most  lenient  masters  of  the  parish,  yet  the 
fear  of  being  sold  or  put  under  the  management  of  a  harsh 
overseer,  filled  them  with  dismay.  Thus  they  wept  and  moaned 
and  bewailed  their  wretched  lot,  until  Mr.  Hunt  appeased  their 
fears  by  kind  assurance,  and  the  promise  of  protection  against 
cruel  drivers. 

This  touching  scene  was  enacted  after  the  1st  of  January, 
1863.  The  day  which  proclaimed  their  freedom,  had  already 
dawned  upon  them,  and  the  shackles  of  thralldom  had  fallen 
from  their  feet.  They,  and  thousands  of  their  race  in  bondage, 
though  ignorant  of   the  blessed  fact,   owned  no  master  save 


180  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

One,  by  whose  inscrutable  means  their  deliverance  had  been 
accomplished.  Still,  these  loving,  faithful  creatures  followed 
in  humble  distress,  the  remains  of  the  last  human  being  that 
was  destined  to  exercise  authority  over  their  lives  and  fortunes. 

Departing  winter,  sprinkled  once  with  snow  the  brown 
fields  and  unsightly  stubbles,  leaving  its  thrice  melancholy 
record  to  the  sad  hearts  at  Highland.  When  May  burst  upon 
the  world,  with  all  the  luxuriance  of  its  sweet  gifts  of  birds 
and  flowers,  and  the  soft  blades  of  bermuda,  once  more  waved 
over  forgotten  graves  at  St.  Francis,  the  work  of  loving  handa 
expanded  into  beauty  within  the  railings  of  the  Lafitte  lot. 
Blue-eyed  violets  sprawled  beneath  their  verdant  canopies,  and 
slyly  peeped  at  their  new  and  peaceful  surroundings. 

The  lilac,  once  sacred  to  the  dead,  offered  to  every  pass- 
ing bee  its  dripping  chalices,  and  an  old  cabbage  rose-bush, 
once  the  pride  of  gr<inclmere's  garden,  here  unfolded  its  rose- 
tinted  petals,  and  distilled  its  fragrance  over  her  lowly  grave. 
On  the  booming  river  near  by,  the  ominous  throb  of  engines  on 
the  enemy's  war-boats,  awakened  dull  echoes  along  the  shores; 
but  the  low  cooing  of  sorrowing  pigeons  and  plaintive  murmur- 
ings  of  the  pines,  were  the  only  sounds  heeded  in  the  silent 
city,  where  grandpere  and  grandmere  awaited  together  the 
Angel's  summons  to  arise  from  imprisoned  dust  for  the  glorious 
reunion  of  immortal  soul  and  bod3\ 


BENEATH  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  STARS.  181 


CHAPTER  XVir. 

BENEATH    THE    LIGHT    OF    THE    STARS. 

A  T  this  period  of  the  war,  Dr.  Gilbert,  an  Episcopalian  min- 
^*^  ister,  with  the  assistance  of  his  efficient  wife,  opened  a 
school  at  the  mouth  of  Bayou  Fordoche,  eight  miles  from  the 
Hunt  place.  As  it  was  the  only  school  in  that  part  of  the 
country,  it  was  opened  to  both  sexes,  and  was  liberally  patron- 
ized by  people  of  every  class  and  denomination.  Lucile,  Her- 
bert Davis  and  Nannie  Dawsey  entered  as  boarders,  returning 
home  on  Fridays,  after  the  dismissal  of  their  classes.  One 
evening  in  June,  Nannie  accompanied  Lucile  home  to  spend 
the  night.  The  family  lingered  until  a  late  hour  out  on  the 
galler}^  where  the  odor  of  flowers  blended  with  the  breeze,  and 
where  they  had  a  glimpse  of  a  young  moon  gilding  the  tree 
tops.  Lucile  retired  to  her  room  with  the  intention  of  working  on 
a  sum  in  algebra  she  was  trying  to  solve  without  the  assistance 
of  her  teacher.  Notwithstanding  her  tireless  energy,  she  at 
length  discovered  her  inability  to  grasp  the  problem,  and  she 
reluctantly  laid  her  book  aside  and  seated  herself  at  the  open 
window.  Fixing  her  earnest  gaze  on  the  heavens,  she  contem- 
plated the  soft  radiance  of  the  summer  constellations  silently 
reeling  through  trackless  space.  Memory  reverted  to  those 
pleasant  school  days  so  abruptly  terminated  b}'  the  war.  She 
recalled  the  happy  evenings  at  the  convent,  when  her  teacher  led 
her  delighted  pupils  out  into  the  balm}-  night  air  to  "star-gaze." 
How  vivid  were  the  recollections  of  the  circumstances  under 
which  each  brilliant  cortege  had  been  traced  out  and  studied! 
Her  eyiBS  ran  along  the  starry  vault  until  arrested  by  the  strik- 


182  ZULMA,    A    STORV    OB'    TUB    OLD    SOUTH. 

ing  brilliuncy  of  Avcturus,  surpassing  in  splendor  the  other 
stars  scattered  iu  its  neighborhood.  She  gazed  with  increasing 
awe  on  that  luminary,  the  Almighty  once  singled  out  by  name 
among  the  imperial  hosts  of  heaven.  When  Bootes,  the 
constellation  which  contains  this  remarkable  star,  was  first 
mapped  out  by  her  class,  it  was  she  who  had  been  called 
upon  to  recite  Young's  i)araphrase  on  that  beautiful  passage  in 
Job,  alluding  to  it,  and  she  now  repeated  it  to  herself,  slowly  and 
solemnly  as  she  would  a  prayer,  meditatingr  on  each  line  as  if 
endeavoring  to  impress  upon  her  soul  the  depth  and  beauty  of 
the  conception. 

"Well!  there  you  are  at  it  again!"  exclaimed  Nannie  Daw- 
sey,  walking  up  to  the  window.  "You  found  it  easier  to  count 
the  stars  than  to  cipher,  didnt  you?" 

"I've  never  had  the  ambition  to  count  them,  Nan,  but  I 
have  of^^en  tried  to  form  an  idea  of  their  distance,  from  us; 
the  effort  is  simply  stunning!" 

"That's  sheer  nonsense,  Lucilc.  God  never  intended  for 
us  to  meddle  with  his  heavenly  bodies.      T  think  it's  sinful." 

"In  all  ages,  good  and  wise  men  have  been  studying  and 
investigating  the  heavens  God  never  condemned  them  for 
trying  to  learn  all  they  could." 

"Much  they  know  about  it!"  replied  Nannie,  with  a  con- 
temptuous toss  of  her  head,  "and  I'm  sure  He  thanks  no  one 
for  rumaging  the  skies  the  way  they  are  doing  nowadays." 

"God  does  not  object  to  it,  Nannie,  for  ancient  historians 
say,  that  at  the  beginning  of  the  world,  people  naturally  fell 
into  the  habit  of  studying  the  heavens,  because  the  knowledge 
was  of  great  importance  to  mankind,  and  He  prolonged  their 
lives  that  they  might  have  time  to  make  advancements  in  the 
study  of  astronomy. " 


BENEATH  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  STARS.  183 

"Much  they  know  of  God's  ideas  on  the  subject!"  sug- 
gested Nannie,  rapping  her  fingers  on  the  window  sill. 

"But  they  were  sure  that  he  had  no  objections  to  their 
studying  astronom}^,  for  there's  a  book  in  the  Bible  in  which 
He  mentions  the  names  of  the  stars  when  He  speaks  to  Job: 
"Canst  thou,"  He  asks,  "bind  the  sweet  influences  of  the 
Pleiades,  or  loose  the  bands  of  Orion?  Canst  thou  bring  forth 
Mazzaroth  in  his  season,  or  guide  Arcturus  with  his  sons?" 

"Well!"  put  in  Nannie,  "there's  neither  head  or  tail  in 
that  rigmarol  to  prove  that  I'm  wrong.  " 

"I  quoted  that  passage  to  show  you  that  God  did  not  dis- 
dain to  make  use  of  the  names  men  gave  to  the  stars."  "He 
would  not  have  done  so,  had  He  disapproved  of  the  study  of 
astronomy.  On  the  contrary,  I  think  He  sanctions  it;  for 
it  elevates  the  soul,  and  teaches  us  the  greatness   of  God." 

"That's  all  very  well  for  notional  people,  Lucile;  I,  for 
one,  have  not  the  least  inclination  for  'soul-elevating'  studies — 
unless  they  be  of  the  matter-of-fact  kind,  like  the  trade  I  have 
just  been  learning  from  Plaisance,  for  instance. " 

"What  was  that,  pray?"  asked  Lucile. 

"Whilst  you  were  sitting  here  star-gazing,  I  was  in  the 
dining-room  learning  how  to  sole  shoes;"  said  Nannie,  laugh- 
ing merrily.  '  'Don't  you  think  that  was  a  more  sensible  occu- 
pation than  yours?" 

"In  some  respects — yes;  most  people  have  to  sole  their 
own  gaiters  nowadays.  I  have  Plaisance  to  do  that  work  for 
me;  consequently,  I  am  at  liberty  to  indulge  in  more  congenial 
occupations,  you  see;" 

"I'm  not  such  an  ignoramus  as  you  think,"  retorted  Nan- 
nie, glancing  at  the  glowing  skies,  "I'm  a  sort  of  astromomer 
myself ;  for  I  can  make  out  several  kinds  of  figures  among  the 
stars.     I  know  where  the  North  star  is  (when  I'm  at  home), 


184  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    T[IE    OLD    SOUTH. 

and  the  seven  sisters,  and  the  flat-iron.  I  can't  see  it  now," 
continued  she,  craning  her  neck  out  of  the  window,  "but  there 
is  a  certain  time  in  the  year  that  i  can  trace  out  a  number  one 
kite,  tail  and  all.  I  generally  find  it  somewhere  near  the  North 
star.  I  wish  you  could  see  it,  Lucile;  its  a  perfect  kite,  sort 
of  a  square  diamond  shape,  its  tail  flying  out  this  way;"  she 
explained,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand. 

"O  I  know  what  you  mean  now,  Nannie;  you  are  describ- 
ing the  chair  of  Cassiopea.  Tt  will  not  be  visible  before  Au- 
gust, I  mean,  at  this  time  of  the  night,  but  if  you  look  for  it 
after  midnight,  you  will  surely  see  it  above  those  trees." 

'  'Thank  you ;  after  I  go  to  bed,  no  amount  of  stars  will 
coax  me  out  before  morning.  But  what  do  you  think  of  my 
observations?" 

"The  flfgure  of  a  chair  does  bear  some  resemblance  to  a 
kite,  Nannie.  Your  idea  is  original;  astronomers  call  it  our 
inverted  chair. " 

"I  should  like  to  know  which  of  the  gods  kicked  it  over. 
Tell  me  al)out  it  Lucile." 

"If  5'^ou  care  to  learn  something  about  Cassiopea  and  her 
chair,  j'ou  are  welcome  to  my  astronomy.  1  shall  show  you  the 
chapter  and  you  can  find  out  for  yourself.  But  whilst  we"  are 
on  the  subject,  let  me  tell  you  of  a  wonderful  phenomenon 
which  occurred  in  this  constellation  many  centuries  ago.  In  a 
certain  spot  within  it,  there  appeared  a  beautiful  star  never 
seen  before,  and  surpassing  in  size  and  brilliancy  any  of  the 
planets.  During  a  period  of  sixteen  months,  this  unknown 
visitant  underwent  the  most  extraordinary  chrfnges,  similar  in 
effect  to  tremendous  conflagrations.  Its  color  at  first  was  of  a 
dazzling  white;  but  it  eventually  changed  to  a  reddish  yellow, 
the  color  of  fire  After  that  it  grew  paler  and  paler,  until  it 
was  entirely  blotted  out  from  the  heatfens.     Astronomers  were 


BENEATH  THE  LIGHT  OP  THE  STARS.  185 

watching  this  interesting  occurrence,  and  forming  all  kinds  of 
conjectures  about  it.  They  imagined  that  after  a  certain  num- 
ber of  years,  it  would  return;  but  it  never  did.  Then,  they 
concluded  that  it  was  a  world  that  had  been  burnt  up.  Think 
of  that,  Nannie,  a  world  perhaps  bigger  than  ours,  being  des- 
troyed by  fire!  Could  you  imagine  a  grander  and  more  appall- 
ing sight?" 

"I  reckon  I  could;  the  burnmg  up  of  a  pile  of  cotton 
bales!"  answered  the  girl,  with  a  mien  so  serious  and  self -con- 
vincing, that  Lucile  appeared  for  a  second  confounded  by  the 
unexpected  and  ridiculous  comparison.  Before  she  could  re- 
cover from  her  surprise,  Nannie,  with  the  utmost  nonchalence, 
asked: 

"Did  your  Pa  attend  the  meetmg  of  the  Cotton-Burners 
at  Livonia,  Lucile?" 

"He  did." 

"And  was  it  decided  to  destroy  cotton?" 

''No;  papa  convinced  them  of  the  folly  of  the  unnecessary 
sacrifice." 

<  'When  the  Yankees  get  hold  of  our  cotton,  we  will  be 
wonderfully  benefitted  by  it;"  remarked  Nannie,  with  a  sneer 
on  her  red  lips. 

"Its  the  planters'  business  to  keep  their  cotton  out  of  the 
enemy's  way,"  said  Lucile,  calmly.  "Papa  intends  to  have 
his  hauled  to  Chalpa  Swamp." 

"What  good?  the  niggers  will  tell  on  him!" 

"I  think  not;  they  seem  as  anxious  as  papa,  to  get  it  out 
of  danger." 

'  'You  are  all  mighty  trustful !  Those  niggers  are  going  to 
turn  tables  on  you,  first  chance  they  get.      See   if  they  don't." 

"The  negroes  on  this  place,  T'm  certain,  will  have  no  de- 
sire to  perform  that  teat,  Nan." 


18U  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH, 

Here,  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  a  detonation  so 
loud  and  a  concussion  so  A^olent,  that  the  sashes  rattled  in 
their  frames. 

"Goodness,  gracious  me!"  exclaimed  Nannie,  "wasn't  that 
a  stunner?  Those  Yankee  gunboats  are  trying  again  to  slip 
by  Port  Hudson.  General  Gardner  is  sending  them  unusually 
big  compliments,  don't  you  think?" 

Both  girls  turned  in  the  direction  where  a  slender  arc 
flashed  athwart  the  dusky  void.  Then,  meteor  after  meteor, 
like  rockets  on  a  festive  night,  leaped  across  the  distant  hori- 
zon. The  noise  of  cannons,  like  muffled  thunder,  incessantly 
struck  the  recoiling  atmosphere,  These  were  familiar  sounds 
and  sights  to  the  two  girls,  and  they  sat  for  some  time  silently 
watching  this  terribly  fascinating  pageantry  of  war,  displayed 
beneath  the  holy  light  of  the  stars. 

"Wouldn't  T  enjoy  the  fun  they  are  having  over  there?" 
exclaimed  Nannie;  "/  do  wish  I  was  a  man.  You  wouldn't 
catch  me  shirking  as  some  do,  who  ought  to  be  fighting  this 
very  minute." 

"Whom  do  you  mean,  Nannie?" 

"Well,  I  won't  mention  names." 

"Do  you  allude  to  Papa?"  asked  Lucile  in  a  somewhat 
shaky  voice. 

'  'I  never  said  toltn  f "  replied  her  friend,  her  eyes  still  fixed 
on  the  curving  lights  in  the  direction  of  Port  Hudson. 

"If  you  do,"  said  Lucile  with  rising  color,  "you  are 
laboring  under  a  grevious  mistake.  Papa  has  not  joined  the 
Confederate  army,  because  he  is  a  Union  man.  He  voted 
against  the  war;  he  opposed  it  all  he  could,  and  he  has  never 
changed  his  views,  nor  will  he  act  contrary  to  his  principles." 

"I  must  say  that  he  has  fine  ideas  for  a  Southern  man!" 

'  <Thi8  is  a  free  country, "  replied  Lucile,  in  a  sort  of  des- 


BENEATH    THE    LIGHT    OF    THE    STARS.  187 

perate  way.  ''Every  man  has  a  right  to  his  own  opinion;  but 
it  happens  it  is  not  every  one  who  dares  to  express  them  as- 
openly  as  papa  does.  You  must,  at  least,  give  him  credit  for 
his  frankness.  He  has  no  ill  feelings  towards  the  Secessionists, 
because  he  knows  the}'  are  honest  at  heart;  and  he  gives  them 
as  much  assistance  as  though  his  sympathies  were  with  them." 

"That's  true,"  answered  Nannie,  reflectively;  "he  is  noted 
for  his  generosity  to  our  soldiers.  I  heard  Captain  Cuttler  say 
that  your  Pa  was  the  most  open- handed  planter  on  Grosse  Tete. 
Whenever  he  was  in  need  of  supplies,  he  knew  exactly  where  to 
go,  and  he  got  them  without  hearing  complaints  And  the  boys 
say  when  they  are  hard  up  for  a  meal  they  ride  up  to  the  High- 
land where  they  are  served  to  the  best  ot  everything.  But 
Lucile,  you  are  too  quick  to  jump  at  conclusions.  I  wasn't 
thinking  about  your  Pa  when  I  referred  to  certain  men  who 
were  shirking  and  loafiing  around,  instead  of  going  off  to  fight 
for  their  country.  I  meant  Jim  Iliggins  and  Mr.  Logan,  who 
pretended  to  be  such  red-hot  Confederates  when  the  war  broke 
out;  and  there's  your  dear  friend  and  sweetheart,  Herbert 
Davis,  idling  his  time  at  school  instead  of  going  off  to  the 
army." 

Once  again  Lucile's  cheeks  were  flooded  with  crimson. 

"Nannie  Dawsey!  How  dare  you  insinuate  such  things? 
Herbert  is  not  my  sweetheart,  we  are  both  to  young  to  think 
of  love.  He  is  trying  to  get  an  education  whilst  he  has  a 
chance,  and  has  never  tried  to  evade  his  duty.  He  begged  his 
father  for  permission  to  join  Captain  K's  company;  Mr.  Davis 
positively  refused  his  consent,  and  will  not  give  it  until  Herbert 
is  seventeen.  He  is  waiting  impatiently  for  the  time  to  enlist. 
And  as  to  his  loafing  around!  You  are  the  first  one  to  underate 
nis  character,  Nannie.  Everybody  knows  that  he  ia  a  steady, 
industriouB  boy,  and  the  hardest  student  at  our  school," 


188  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"That  will  do  Lucile,  you  needn't  say  another  word  in 
Herbert's  defense;  according  to  your  idear,  he's  just  perfect. 
But  I  know  a  thing  or  two;  among  others  is  this:  If  I  was  a 
man  and  wanted  to  fight,  no  Pa  of  mine  could  keep  me  out  of 
the  army.  The  ones  who  contrive  to  keep  out  of  it  are  afraid 
of  Yankee  bullets;  that's  the  long  and  short  of  it." 

Lucile  made  no  response  to  her  friend's  emphatic  expres- 
sion of  her  views,  but  continued  to  watch  the  magnificent  dis- 
plays  in  the  heavens. 

Nannie  began  drumming  on  the  casement  in  accompani- 
ment to  her  song  which  floated  out  in  the  night  air,  in  clear, 
melodious  notes. 

"Then  let  the  big  guns  roar  as  they  will, 
We  will  be  gay  and  happy  still. 
Gay  and  happy,  free  and  easy, 
Louisiana  is  our  home!" 

Early  the  next  morning  the  girls  took  a  walk  in  the  flower 
garden;  the  weather  was  warm  and  sultry,  and  the  grass 
sparkled  with  dew.  But  the  two  threaded  their  way  among 
the  dripping  shrubbery,  clipping  floral  beauties  which  Lucile 
carried  in  a  basket  hung  on  her  arm.  One  could  not  imagine 
a  more  lovely  picture  than  these  two  girls,  gliding  in  and 
out  of  shadow  and  sunshine  like  a  pair  of  butterflies  in  search 
of  the  sweetest  flowers.  The  color  of  Nannie's  cheeks 
was  that  of  a  damask  rose,  and  her  pretty  brown  hair  rippled 
all  over  her  neck  and  shoulders.  Lucile,  at  fifteen,  still  had 
the  appearance  of  a  child,  but  she  was  as  graceful  as  a  fawn 
in  her  movements.  She  had  an  exquisite  complexion,  and  the 
frnged  lashes  of  her  dark  blue  eyes  contributed  to  heighten 
the  beauty  of  her  expressive  countenance.  She  wore  a  broad- 
brimmed  palmetto  hat  her  mother  had  made  for  her.  The 
trimming  consisted  of  an  elaborately   braided  palmetto  band, 


BENEATH    THE    LIGHT    OF    THE    STARS.  189 

into  which  JNannie  had  just  inserted  a  cluster  of  white  roses. 
The  girls  had  now  found  a  bed  of  blooming  mignonnette,  and 
the}'  both  began  clipping  the  cymes  of  the  odoriferous  plants. 
"Rosanna  is  a  fond  lover  of  mignonnette,"  remarked 
Lucile;    "I  must  lay  aside  the  loveliest  for  her." 

"You're  mighty  sweet  on  your  future  sister-in-law,  Lucile;" 
observed  her  mischievous  friend. 

"Nannie,  what's  gotten  into  you?"  cried  Lucile,  dropping 
her  shears.  "Its  very  unkind  of  you  to  make  such  remarks!" 
"I'm  not  the  only  one  to  make  them,  my  dear,  the  whole 
school  knows  that  Herbert  is  dead  in  love  with  you,  and  don't 
find  it  so  dreadfully  wicked  either.  You're  a  very  sweet  and 
interesting  couple,  I  think. " 

'  'Herbert  is  not  in  love  with  me"  answered  Lucile,  reck- 
lessly mowing  down  the  mignonnette;  this  is  merely  an  inven- 
tion of  yours!" 

"Upon  my  word  'tis  not,  Lucile;  why  it's  fun  for  us  to 
watch  Herbert's  eyes  when  the  senior  class  is  called  in  for  reci- 
tation. First  thing  he  does  on  reaching  the  door  is  to  hunt 
you  up;  and  when  he  does  catch  a  glimpse  of  you,  his  face 
lights  up  like  sunshine  after  rain. " 

"That's  Herbert's  natural  expression,  Nannie,  he  always 
looks  cheerful." 

"Hold  on,  'till  I  tell  you  something  else.  Last  Thursday, 
Dr.  Gilbert  called  in  the  class  before  you  came  from  practicing, 
Herbert  walked  in  with  a  face  like  a  bran  new  dollar.  As 
usual,  his  eyes  ran  around  the  room  in  search  of  some  one 
whom  he  did  not  find,  of  course-^  and  his  countenance  fell  as 
flat  as  a  pan-cake — I  declare  it  did!" 

uWell — I  don't  deny  Herbert's  friendship  for  me — we 
have  always  liked  each  other;  his  tastes  are  very  similar  to 
mine,  and  this  makes  us  cougenial.     He  loves  to  talk  to  me 


190  ZULMA,   A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

about  his  studies   and  brings   me   books  to   read,  but   he  has 
never  told  me  that  he  cared  for  me." 

"Good  morning,  young  ladies!" 

''Bless  me!"  exclaimed  Nannie,  rising  from  her  knees, 
"talk  about  angels  and  they  walk  right  in." 

Herbert  had  ridden  to  the  gate,  evidently  with  the  inten- 
tion of  calling,  but  the  sight  of  Nannie  disconcerted  him. 
They  were  not  the  best  of  friends ;  whenever  they  met  they 
were  continually  sparring  at  each  other.  Herbert  did  not  feel 
inclined  to  renew  the  strife  which  characterized  their  usual  in- 
tercourse at  school. 

"Here's  a  houtonnlere  for  you,  pra}'  dismount,  captain;" 
cried  Nannie,  holding  up  a  tiny  bouquet. 

But  the  lad  made  no  response;  he  sat  in  his  saddle,  grace- 
fully erect,  a  look  of  disappointment  plainly  depicted  in  his 
handsome,  open  countenance. 

"Speak  to  him  Lucile, "  said  Nannie,  in  a  jesting  tone; 
"don't  you  see  he  is  mad  because  it  wasn't  you  who  offered 
him  the  flowers." 

"Won't  you  come  in  Herbert?"  asked  Lucile,  in  a  timid, 
hesitating  voice. 

He  courteously  lifted  his  hat.  "Thank  you.  I  have  an 
engagement  down  the  road."  Suddenly,  a  bright  idea  flashed 
across  his  mind.    "Are  you  going  home  this  morning,  Nannie?" 

"That's  a  polite  question,"  answered  she,  smiling  sarcas- 
tically.     "Why  do  you  want  to  know?" 

"Because  if  you  are,  I  shall  ofl'er  to  escort  you.  I  heard 
that  the  Yankees  were  raiding  out  on  False  River,  and  may,  at 
any  moment,  venture  out  here,  and  I  don't  think  it's  prudent 
for  you  to  walk  home  alone." 

"You  are  very  considerate;  wait  a  minute;  I  shall  go  with 
you,  Herbert." 


BENEATH  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  STARS.  lOl 

As  the  two  girls  stepped  upon  the  galle^3^  Nannie  whis- 
pered:     "Why  Lucile,  you   are  already  green  with  jealousy!" 

Lucile  gave  Nannie  an  appealing  look  and  followed  her 
into  her  bed -room. 

The  latter  placed  herself  before  the  glass  and  coquettishly 
tucked  a  red  rose  in  her  rippling  hair.  '  'Am  I  not  too  sweet 
for  anything?"  she  asked,  casting  glances  of  admiration  at  her 
own  bright  image.  "My  dear  Lucile,  I  mean  to  make  a  dead 
set  for  Herbert's  heart,  that  is,  if  5^ou  have  no  serious  objec- 
tions?" 

"The  very  idea!"  and  Lucile  turned  aside  to  hide  the 
blush  which  overspread  her  face.  "If  your  ambition  prompts 
you  to  make  a  conquest  of  Herbert's  affections,  I'm  the  last 
person  in  the  world  to  interfere  with  you." 

"My  ambition!"  retorted  Nannie,  curling  her  crimson  lips. 
"Gracious  me!  then  you  consider  him  better  than  other  people?" 

"Better  than  most  boys,"  responded  Lucile,  somewhat 
defiantly.      "He  is  sincere  and  noble  and  good,  and " 

"Hold  on!"  interrupted  her  companion,  snatching  up  her 
satchel.  "I'm  not  love-blinded.  I  know  all  about  his  perfec- 
tions and  imperfections  too,  as  far  as  his  character  is  concerned; 
good  bye!" 

Planting  a  kiss  on  Lucile's  quivering  lips,  she  continued: 
"Don't  forget  to  bring  your  share  of  the  Confederate  cake, 
and  a  jar  of  pickles.  You  know  we  had  short  rations  last 
week!" 


192  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AN    UNEXPECTED    CALL    AND    REVELATION. 

HERBERT'S  engagement  down  the  road  did  not  detain  him 
long.  On  his  way  back  he  once  more  turned  his  horse's 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  elegant  home  among  the  oaks. 
A  dozen  horses  were  tethered  to  the  front  fence;  he  knew  that 
they  belonged  to  a  squad  of  Confederate  soldiers  he  had  seen 
galloping  by.  He  had  just  passed  their  picket  guard  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  off.  He  led  his  own  steed  around  to  the  stable  j-ard 
and  returned  co  the  house.  Zulma  answered  his  impatient 
knock  at  the  hall  door. 

"Oh,  dat's  you,  Mars 'Erbert!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
dubious  grin.      '•  I  was  dun  skeered!  " 

'  'Are  you  afraid  of  people  in  broad  day-light  now, 
Zulma?" 

"  Dese  is  skeeful  times,  mind  you,"  she  answered,  wiping 
with  her  apron  her  greasy  lips,  '  'an'  I  went  an'  tuck  vou  for  a 
Yankee." 

"That's  a  compliment!     Do  I  look  like  one?" 

"  Dat  was  befo'  I  seed  you,"  she  answered,  opening  the 
parlor  door.  "  We  yere  dey's  a  prowlin'  'round  False  River; 
no  tellin  w'en  dey'll  bounce  right  in.  When  dey  does,  1  'spec 
we'se  gwine  to  have  a  fight  in  dis  yere  very  house.  Dinin'  room 
full  uv  rebs,  eatin'  breakfuss." 

"  Don't  let  that  trouble  you,  Zolma;  they'll  have  it  out- 
side.     Where's  your  mistress?" 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CALL  AND  REVELATION.        193 

"In  de  dinin'  room,  porin'  out  coffee — if  dey  does  have  it 
outside,"  proceeded  the  girl,  her  mind  reverting  to  the  threat- 
ened danger,   '■'■some  one  gwine  to  git  hurt,  sho'." 

"That  one  wont  be  you — I  can  vouch  for  it,"  replied 
Herbert,  somewhat  impatiently,  ' '  Call  in  your  little  mistress. 
I  have  something  important  to  tell  her,  and  I  am  in  a  great 
hurry." 

"Can't  see'er  neider,  Mars  'Erbert;  she's  in  de  kitchen 
'elpin'  Aunt  Polly  fry  batter-cakes  fur  de  sojers  " 

"Confound  it!  can't  you  replace  her  for  a  few  minutes, 
Zulma?" 

"  I's  busy  myself,  chippin'  dry  beef  fur  de  rebs;  dey's  in 
a  bigger  hurry  den  you  is, "  answered  the  slave,  tripping  off 
with  a  mischievious  twinkle  in  her  black  eyes. 

"Hold  on,  Zulma,"  cried  Herbert  in  desperation,  "I 
must  see  Lucile;  tell  her  that  I  am  here    waiting  to  see  her." 

"  Fate  seems  to  be  against  me,  I  can  never  have  a  chance 
to  speak  to  her,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  pacing  the  parlor 
floor  with  apparent  agitation.  His  dark  hazel  eyes,  usually 
bright  with  boyish  animation,  now  revealed  the  disturbances 
of  his  soul.  He  was  evidently  laboring  under  some  mental 
strain,  and  anticipated  the  doubtful  results  of  an  approaching 
ordeal. 

At  length  he  seated  himself  near  the  centre  table  and  be- 
gan turning  the  leaves  of  a  book  of  poems.  Some  passage 
in  the  volume  seemed  to  arrest  his  attention,  for  he  read 
with  apparent  interest  for  a  few  seconds;  then  taking  from  his 
pocket  a  note  book,  he  wrote  within  it  a  few  hurried  lines  On 
the  table  was  a  vase  filled  svith  fresh  flowers;  he  broke  off  from 
among  them  a  rosebud  and  folded  it  in  a  leaf  torn  from  the 
blank  book.  At  this  moment  Lucile  stepped  into  the  room. 
Her  cheeks  were  unusually  flushed,  and    her  eyes  met  his  with 


i94-  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

unwonted  timidity,  but  she  greeted  him  with  a  pleasant  smile. 
"  You  will  excuse  me,  Herbert,  for  havmg  kept  you  waiting," 
she  said;  "I  was  helping  mamma  serve  breakfast  to  some  of 
our  soldiers,  who  are  going  out  to  the  river  on  urgent  bus- 
iness.'" 

"  You  are  excusable,  Lucile,"  answered  Herbert,  with  a 
grave  smile;  you  were  not  aware  that  my  business  was  as  ur- 
gent as  theirs." 

Lucile  looked  up  into  his  face  with  an  incredulous  stare. 
"  No,  I  was  not;  what  is  it,  Herbert?" 

"If  you  sit  here,  I  shall  explain." 

He  took  a  seat  on  the  sofa,  she  on  the  piano  stool. 

"Don't  perch  up  there,  so  far  from  me,  Lucile,"  he 
pleaded ;  "I  have  a  secret  to  tell  you,  and  don't  particularly 
care  to  publish  it  on  the  house-top." 

A  laugh,  nervous  but  musical,  broke  from  the  girl's  beauti- 
fully curved  lips.  ' '  Oh,  it's  to  be  a  secret  then, "  she  exclaimed, 
walking  across  the  room  to  the  seat  beside  him.  His  fine, 
magnetic  eyes,  looked  into  hers  with  a  world  of  meaning  in 
their  clear,  searching  depths;  Lucile's  dropped  with  girlish 
modesty.  Nannie's  observations,  touching  his  devotions  to 
her  had  disquieted  her  soul;  she  could  no  longer  meet  his 
glance  with  the  frankness  of  former  days. 

"I  see  so  little  of  j^ou  now,  dear  Lucile,"  he  said,  "that 
you  must  really  pardon  me  for  gazing  at  you  when  the  oppor- 
tunity offers  itself." 

"  Do  you  not  see  me  every  day  at  school?" 
"  Yes,  in  the  recitation  room,  where  a  lot  of  mischievous 
girls  are  ever  on  the  alert,  read}-  to  talk  and  criticise.     Of 
late,  I  have  kept  aloof  from  you,  lest  they  should  estrange 
you  from  me  with  some  of  their  foolish  tattle. " 


AN    UNEXPECTED    CALL    AND    REVELATION.  195 

A  lovely  blush  overspread  Lucile's  cheeks ;  she  arose  from 
her  seat  and  walked  to  a  stand  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
bringing  back  a  small  basket  filled  with  balls  of  spun  cotton. 
' '  Herbert,  you  will  not  mind  if  I  plat  these  candle  wicks, 
will  you?" 

"Are  the  candles  in  a  particular  hurry  for  their  wicks?" 
asked  Herbert,  with  a  look  of  annoyance  overshadowmg  his 
handsome  face. 

"  I  can't  answer  for  the  candles,"  responded  his  compan- 
ion, laughing,  "but  I  know  that  Plaisance  is  anxious  to  dip 
these  this  evening;  we  have  only  two  confederate  candles  left, 
and  these,  you  know,  are  only  fit  for  the  kitchen." 

Lucile  unwound  a  portion  of  the  twist  and  began  cutting 
it  into  requisite  lengths. 

Herbert  watched  her  in  silence. 

"  You  promised  to  tell  me  a  secret,"  she  ventured  to  say. 

"Little  you  care  to  know  it,'  he  replied,  in  an  aggrieved 
tone  of  voice.  ' '  There  was  a  time  you  were  always  ready  and 
willing  to  sympathize  with  me  in  my  troubles.  What  has 
changed  you,  Lucile?" 

' '  If  the  matter  in  any  way  concerns  you,  tell  it  to  me.  I 
am  all  attention." 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,  I  must  inform  you  that  I  am 
not  going  back  to  school." 

"And  why  not?" — Lucile  remembered  Nannie's  silly  talk 
— "  has  some  one  said  things  to  vex  you?" 

"As  though  I  would  allow  such  trifles  to  interfere  with 
my  studies!  I  once  told  you  how  anxious  I  was  to  go  into  the 
army,  and  how  strenuously  father  opposed  my  wishes.  He  is 
still  firm  in  his  decision  about  keeping  me  at  school  until  my 
seventeenth  year.  The  idea  is  preposterous.  I  will  have  to 
wait  six   months  longer;  and  I  don't  intend  to  do  it.     Our 


196  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

president  is  asking  for  fresh  troops  and  I  think  it  is  the  duty 
of  every  Southern  man  to  respond  to  the  call.  I,  for  one, 
will  not  withhold  my  services.  I  am  old  enough  to  perform 
the  duties  of  a  soldier;  m}  pride  is  at  stake,  and  I  see  no 
reason  why  I  should  be  debarred  from  the  honors  and  privi- 
leges others  enjo}'.  All  the  young  men  of  my  age,  if  of  any 
account,  are  in  the  army  fighting  for  Southern  Eights;  and  1 
mean  to  cast  my  lot  with  them.  Now,  Lucile,  tell  me  truly, 
if  you  do  not  think  my  decision  just  and  patriotic." 

"I'm  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  advise,  Herbert; 
why  do  you  put  me  to  such  a  task?" 

"  Because  I  would  be  perfectly  miserable  if  I  were  to  take 
a  step  which  you  condemned." 

"Act  according  to  the  dictates  of  your  conscience,  Her- 
bert; it  will  never  reproach  you.  But,  if  you  do  care  for  my 
opinion,  I  shall  give  it  honestly;  do  not  leave  home  without 
your  father's  consent,  if  you  can  possibly  help  it.  I  don't 
think  he  will  refuse  it  if  you  ask  him  in  the  right  way.  If 
you  do  this,  you  will  be  better  satisfied  with  yourself,  and 
better  able  to  endure  the  hardships  of  war.  And,  besides, 
you  will  have  God's  blessing  to  sustain  you,  in  case  you  meet 
with  any  misfortune." 

"  You  are  a  wise  and  dear  little  counsellor,"  he  said, 
looking  down  into  the  beautiful  eyes  raised  to  his  with  touch- 
ing entreaty. 

"Where  do  you  intend  going?"  she  asked,  catching  her 
breath,  her  heart  was  beating  so  rapidly. 

"I  am  going  with  Captain  R. ,  to  Milliken's  bend,  where 
Taylor  has  been  ordered  to  co-operate  with  Pemberton,  Un- 
less immediate  assistaace  be  rendered,  Vicksburg  will  surely 
fall.     There  will  be  hot  fighting  there  I  suppose. 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CALL  AND  REVELATION.       197 

Lucile's  graceful  form  and  head  bent  lower  over  her  work; 
the  soft,  white  twine  fairly  flew  in  and  out  of  her  agile  fingers. 

"I  am  not  going  away,  Lucile,  without  sharing  with  you 
a  secret  I  have  kept  locked  up  in  my  bosom  for  I  know  not 
how  long — since  I  first  met  you,  I  do  believe.  You  were  such 
a  dear  lovely  child!" 

"0,  nonsense,  Herbert!" 

""Well,  from  the  time  of  our  first  acquaintance,  there  was 
a  certain  feeling  that  crept  into  my  heart.  It  was  one  which 
strengthened  with  my  growth,  and  took  possession  of  my 
whole  being  as  though  it  were  part  of  myself.  You  never 
knew  how  deeply  and  tenderly  I  loved  you,  Lucile?" 

"Herbert,  you  shock  me!"  cried  the  girl,  burying  her 
face  in  her  hands.  "  You  have  no  right  to  tell  me  this;  what 
will  papa  think  of  you?" 

"Your  father  cannot  very  well  censure  me  for  doing  ex- 
actly what  he  did  some  twenty  years  ago.  Did  he  not  have 
to  let  your  mother  know  of  his  love,  in  order  to  win  hers?" 

"  But  you  must  not  tell  it  to  me  now,  Herbert;  I'm  too 
young;  you  must  stop  it!" 

"Indeed,  I  wont,"  replied  the  youth,  with  almost  sullen 
persistency.  "  T  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  all  this  so  soon,  Lucile; 
but  circumstances  force  me  to  speak,  and  you  mnsf  listen  to 
me.  I  am  going  away ;  I  may  not  see  you  again  for  years.  In 
the  meantime  you  will  have  reached  an  age  when  women  re- 
ceive the  homage  of  men.  You  will  be  beautiful;  someone 
will  try  and  rob  me  of  my  treasure.  The  thought  makes  me 
wretched.  I  have  been  trying  during  all  these  years,  to  make 
myself  worthy  of  you,  hoping  some  day  to  win  your  love. 
You  are  the  idol  of  my  heart;  I  care  for  none  on  earth  as  I  do 
for  you.     Oh,  Lucile!  do  not  let  me  go  without  a  word  of  love 


198  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

or  of  encouragement!  Promise  that  you  will  not  permit  any 
of  the  boys  to  make  love  to  you  during  my  absence." 

"  Lucile  half  turned  her  rosy  face;  "  That's  not  a  very 
hard  promise  to  give,  Herbert,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  rippling 
all  over  her  countenance. 

"But,  Lucile,  you  will  not  allow  it  because  of  your  love 
for  me;  not  from  a  lack  of  coquetry;  tell  me  that,  dearest." 

"  You  have  no  right  to  put  such  a  question  to  me,  and  I 
will  not  answer  you." 

"But  I  /iofe,"  exclaimed  the  lad  with  vehemence,  "unless 
you  deny  it,  I  shall  take  the  affirmative  for  an  answer.  I 
know  you  are  too  truthful  to  deceive  me." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Then  I  shall  consider  this  a  sacred  compact  between 
us,"'  pursued  Herbert,  lowering  his  handsome  face  over  uer 
bowed  head.  "You  must  understand  that  I  have  given  you 
my  heart's  affection,  without  reserve.  Some  day  I  shall  claim 
yours  in  return." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  tiny  parcel.  "Here's  a  little 
token  I  wish  to  leave  with  you ;  only  a  rosebud  and  a  few  sig- 
nificant lines;  they  will  remind  you  of  me,  dear  little  sweet- 
heart, if  you  are  ever  tempted  to  forget." 

"I  shall  not  forget  you,  Herbert." 

"  I  hardly  thmk  you  could,"  he  said,  pressing  into  her 
hand  the  little  souvenir.  "Now,  T  want  a  favor  in  return; 
give  me  the  rose  you  are  wearing,  please.'" 

She  raised  her  graceful  head  from  the  basket  and,  with 
fluttering  fingers,  began  detaching  the  desired  object  from  the 
pin  which  held  it. 

"You  really  do  not  care  for  this, "  she  said,  holding  it 
before  her  with  a  sweet,  pathetic,  smile.  "It  is  withered  and 
worthless,  Herbert." 


AN  UNEXPECTED  CALL  AND  REVELATION.        199 

"  But  It  will  be  most  precious  to  me,  nevertheless,"  he 
answered,  taking  from  her  the  drooping  flower  which  had 
been  crushed  beneath  her  white  throat.  But,  alas!  at  his 
touch,  the  fragile  petals  fell  in  a  shower  at  his  feet.  A  look 
of  chagrin,  like  a  cloud,  swept  across  his  countenance.  "I 
am  unfortunate!"  he  exclaimed,  casting  a  deprecating  glance 
at  Lucile. 

"0,  that's  nothing,  Herbert,"  she  said  m  a  reassuring 
manner.      ''  There  are  plenty  more  in  the  parterre." 

"  But  this  is  the  only  one  I  care  to  have,"  answered  Her- 
bert, placing  the  depleted  coralla  and  stem  between  the  leaves 
of  his  pocket-book.  ''  I  am  going  now,  Lucile;  to-morrow  I 
shall  come  to  bid  you  good-bye." 

Every  vistage  of  color  fled  from  the  girl's  cheeks.  She 
stood  before  him  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands,  her  lips 
all  in  a  quiver.  "  Herbert,  I  shall  have  to  tell  mamma  all 
that  has  passed  between  us." 

"I  have  not  the  least  objection,"  replied  the  young  lover. 
"I  think  it  is  right  that  you  should.  It  is  not  my  intention 
to  forfeit  your  parent's  esteem  by  hiding  from  them  my  feel- 
ings towards  you.      Au  revoir,  then,  my  dear  Lucile." 

For  some  time  after  Herbert's  departure,  Lucile  stood  like 
one  in  a  dream.  A  strange,  new  feeling  pervaded  her  whole 
being.  It  was  love's  awakening  influences,  but  she  knew  it 
not.  A  sweet  desolation  filled  her  heart;  she  threw  herself 
upon  the  sofa,  in  a  childish  outburst  of  grief. 


200  ZULMA,    A    STORV    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


CHAPTEli  XIX. 


EPISODES    ON    ALL    SAINTS    DAY. 


T^HE  festival  fell  on  a  Sunday,  and  Lucile  felt  a  melancholy 
*  pleasure  in  spending  it  at  home,  tor  she  knew  how  sadly 
her  mother  would  have  missed  her  had  she  been  at  school. 
One  3''ear  ago,  Lucile  liad  passed  a  memorable  week  with  the 
loved  ones,  now  forever  removed  from  life's  endearing  associa- 
tions. It  was  Mrs.  Hunt's  intention  to  fulfil  on  this  day  the 
mournful  duties  she  owed  to  her  departed  parents;  to  weep 
over  their  graves  and  to  deck  them  with  the  tokens  of  her  un- 
dying remembrance.  But  the  Federals,  who,  since  the  fall  of 
Port  Hudson,  had  made  this  part  of  the  parish  their  head- 
quarters, were  now  bivouaced  in  the  vicinity  of  Saint  Francis' 
church.  Naturally,  their  presence  debarred  the  people  from 
the  performance  of  their  accustomed  ceremonies  at  the  grave- 
yard, and  deprived  them  of  the  consolations  which  religion 
alone  offered  to  the  bereaved.  The  dead  of  the  ancient  cem- 
etery, received  no  tribute  from  loving  hands  that  year;  there 
was  a  lack  of  garlands,  of  tears  and  prayers.  But  nature,  as 
if  in  compensation,  silently  assumed  the  duties  denied  to  the 
faithful.  The  fiowers  formerly  brought  here  to  decorate  the 
tombs,  had  scattered  the  seeds  which  were  now  transformed 
into  a  gorgeous  array  of  cock's  combs  and  amaranths.  Like 
freinds  in  adversity,  they  stood  about  the  neglected  graves 
where  the  wild  asters  clustered,  and  the  adventurous  golden- 
rod  waved  its  flaming   torches.      Lucile  and  her  mother  had 


EPISODES    ON    ALL    SAINTS"    DAY.  201 

devoted  much  of  their  time  during  the  preceding  summer  to 
the  cultivation  of  the  flowers  destined  to  decorate  their  ceme- 
ter}^  lot.  But  the  handsome  chrysanthemums  and  dahlias 
which  had  expanded  into  beauty  at  the  desired  time,  were 
left  on  the  stalks  to  breast  the  dreary  rains  of  autumn.  In 
the  bitterness  of  her  disappointment,  Mrs.  Hunt  decided  upon 
a  plan  which  would,  in  a  manner,  bring  her  in  touch  with  the 
dear  departed;  and  that  was  to  visit  her  ancestral  home. 

After  Mrs.  Lafitte's  death,  the  plantation  had  been  put 
under  the  control  of  an  overseer,  who,  according  to  Mr.  Hunt's 
orders,  was  not  to  deviate  from  the  old  regime  in  his  manage- 
ment. With  childlike  docilit}',  the  slaves  resumed  their  accus- 
tomed work,  apparent Iv  wgll  contented  with  their  lot.  This 
state  of  alTairs  lasted  until  Bank's  memorable  invasion.  The 
alluring  promises  made  by  the  Union  soldiers  demoralized  all 
the  negroes  in  the  country,  and  thousands  of  them  fled  from 
their  homes  to  follow  his  army  on  its  way  to  Port  Hudson. 
Here,  like  dazzled  moths,  tbey  settled  around  the  glare  of  its 
camp  fires,  perishing  by  the  score,  and  undergoing  untold 
sufferings,  brought  on  by  famine  and  exposure.  The  Lafitte 
negroes  were  not  proof  against  the  allurements  held  forth  by 
the  Federals.  One  night  they  took  unceremonious  possession 
of  their  young  master's  mules  and  wagons,  and  stole  away  as 
noislessly  as  Bedouins.  This  was  no  uncommon  occurrence. 
At  this  period  of  tlie  war,  owners  of  slaves  knew  not  the  day, 
when  on  rising  they  should  find  deserted  quarters  and  aband- 
oned cro})s;  and  the  ladies  of  the  household  were  often  called 
upon  to  renounce  the  hour's  lounging  in  luxurious  chambers, 
for  the  disagreeable  duties  of  their  absconded  cooks.  A  few 
decrepid  negroes,  with  feet  too  near  the  brink  of  the  grave  to 
care  for'  e.arthly  promises  and  pilgrimages,  still  remained  at 
Gome  a  Chevreuil     Nothing  had  bten  removed  from  the  hou^e, 


202  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

save  the  valuable  propert}';  The  i-est  had  been  left  in  charge 
of  a  venerable  couple,  whose  faithful  services  had  long  ex- 
empted them  from  all  servile  labors.  Aunt  Patsy  had  come 
from  '-Ole  Virginy, "  a  circumstance  which  greatly  enhanced 
her  qualities  in  the  eyes  of  her  new  master,  and  procured  her 
numberless  favors  and  privileges.  She  and  her  husband  occu- 
pied one  of  the  end  rooms  of  the  dreary  old  house.  They 
were  liberally  compensated  for  airing  the  apartments  and  at- 
tending to  the  immediate  surroundings.  These  two,  and  the 
few  others  who  had  refused  to  "fly  into  the  face  of  Freedom  " 
as  Aunt  Patsy  expressed  it,  were  the  remnants  of  that  stalwart 
force,  representing  fifty  thousand  dollars  of  the  estate. 

It  is  left  to  the  reader's  mind  to  form  some  conception  of 
the  emotions  which  stirred  in  the  bosom  of  both  mother  and 
daughter,  on  reaching  the  forsaken  place.  Dave,  as  of  old, 
stood  at  the  carriage  door,  hat  in  hand,  humbly  awaiting  to 
assist  them  to  alight.  But  his  mistress,  oblivious  of  his  pres- 
ence, gazed  with  tearful  eyes  on  the  familiar  objects  about  her. 
The  sight  was  depressing  and  overpowered  her  with  a  sense  of 
its  utter  desolation  and  forlorness. 

"Life  and  thought  had  gone  away  side  by  side." 

Lucile  too,  missed  the  accustomed  smile  which  had  ever 
before  greeted  her  coming,  and  it  was  with  effort  that  she  sup- 
pressed the  cry  of  "^grandmere!"  which  rose  unbidden  to  her 
lips. 

They  found  Aunt  Patsy  in  the  garden  weeding  a  bed  of 
cabbage;  when  she  recognized  the  visitors,  she  dropped  her 
hoe  and  hobbled  across  the  beds  to  meet  them.  But  the  weight 
of  four  score  years,  bore  heavily  down  upon  the  weary  limbs, 
and  she  made  but  slow  progress,  even  in  her  eagerness  to  wel- 
come her  gentle  mistress. 

"I  'clar.  Miss  'Lise,"  she  cried,  losing  and  catching  her 
breath  in  her  eagerness  to  reach  her,     "I  'clar,  you  did  'sprise 


EPISODES    ON    ALL    SAIXTS'   DAY,  203 

me  drea'ful,  but  I'se  awful  glad  ter  see  you,  any'ow.  I  kep 
on  sen'ing  you  word  fur  to  cum  an'  look  arter  yo'  things,  an' 
you  niver  'ow  cum?" 

"I  received  your  message,  Aunt  Patsy,"  replied  her  mis- 
tress, "and  I  appreciated  your  efforts  in  trying  to  save  our 
property,  but  really,  my  presence  here  would  have  done  no 
good,  and  j'ou  know  how  painful  'tis  tor  me  to  come;  every 
thing  is  so  different  from  what  it  used  to  be." 

Here,  emotion  choked  her  utterance  and  the  tears  rushed 
to  her  eyes. 

"Dey's  no  use  in  frettin',  honey,"  said  the  faithful  old 
creature,  stroking  the  white  hand  which  lay  passively  in  hers. 
"You'd  better  be  tankful  ter  de  Lawd  dat  He  tuck  'em  ter 
glory  befo'  dey  laid  eyes  on  dese  yere  times  of  tribilations  and 
distructiou.  Dey  was  tuck  in  de  right  time,  chile,  and  de 
good  Lawd  dun  put  'em  whar  no  Yankees  can't  nebber  trouble 
'em.  Gracious  knows  dey's  doing  dey  bes'  to  'stroy  dis  yere 
place!  Cum  eiiong  and  see  fur  yo'self ;"  pursued  Aunt  Patsy, 
leading  her  mistress  into  the  garden.  "Look!  dars  my  mustard 
bed  all  tromp  under  by  dem  Yankee  sojers;  an'  dar's  my  ole 
man's  inyun  plants  all  spiled.  Ef  yo'  look  over  yonder,  Miss 
'Lise,  you  won't  find  a  single  oringe  on  ole  missis"  trees;  dem 
rogues  knock  off'  de  very  las'  one  of  'em,  green  as  dey  was.  I 
jawed  at  'em  an'  'lowed  I  was  gwine  to  'port  'em  to  Lincom, 
an'  you  wanter  b'leeve,  one  of  dem  fellers  p'inted  his  pistol  at 
me  and  tole  me  he  had  a  great  notion  of  sen'ing  me  ter  h — 11? 
But  I  skeered  'em  off,  artar  a  while,  an'  dey  ain't  cum  back 
sense.  In  my  born  days,  I  nt'l'ber  seed  sicher  time!  Dar's  all 
de  cane  stan'in'  in  de  feel,  an'  de  'taters  in  degroun'!  Stidder 
dem  niggers  stayin'  yere  ter  take  off  de  crop,  dey's  all  clared 
out  'cept  dem's  dat  staid;  an  dey  ain't  a  bit  account.  As  I 
was  tellin'  you,  Miss  'Lise,  dem  Federals,, dey  tuck  artar  de 


201 


ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


ducks  and  chickens,  racin'  roun'  de  yard,  jiss  awful.  I  was 
lookin'  on  tliinkin'  ter  myself,  'spose  ole  marsfcar  see  dat,  now; 
he'd  turn  obber  in  his  grave!  An'  w'en  dem  sojers  cum  in 
yere,  prancin'  ober  dese  yere  flowers  an'  vilets,  I  say  to  myself, 
says  I,  T  hope  to  gracious  ole  missis  aint  got  an  eye  on  dem 
fellers! " 

At  this  juncture,  Liicile,  who  had  been  silently  plucking 
the  flowers  from  a  sweet-olive  tree,  broke  into  a  fit  of.  ungov- 
ernable laughter.  The  combination  of  pathetic  and  ludicrous 
ideas  which  Aunt  Patsy  so  impetuously  rolled  oflf  her  voluble 
tongue,  conflicted  and  clashed  v/ith  each  other,  in  some  under- 
current of  the  girl's  mind,  and  the  result  was  the  painful  and 
untimely  outburst  of  hilarity.  Poor  Lncile,  filled  with  dismay, 
looked  towards  her  mother  for  the  expected  rebuke,  but  none 
came.  Frightened  and  disconsolate,  she  then  fell  in  the  oppo- 
site extreme;  she  threw  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  and  gave 
vent  to  her  feelings  in  a  flood  of  tears. 

Mrs.  Hunt  readily  appreciated  her  daughter's  predicament, 
and  with  a  heart  full  of  loving  sympathy,  laid  her  hand  on  her 
arm,  saying:  "Come  darling,  it  is  not  good  for  either  of  us 
to  remain  here;  our  visits  only  tend  to  reopen  the  old  wounds 
and  make  us  unhappy." 

Aunt  Patsy,  whose  loquacity  had  been  temporarily  sub- 
dued by  Lucile's  unexpected  behavior,  stood  by,  with  a  long 
visage,  ejaculating:  "Chillun  is  chillun,  dey's  nujfin'  under 
de  sun,  solum  'nougU  fur  'em!" 

Lucile  glanced  at  her  mother,  with  that  knowing  and  in- 
describable expression  in  her  eyes,  which  perfectly  conveyed 
her  meaning.  Humor  on  the  verge  of  her  lips,  threatened  to 
betray  the  conceits  of  her  naturall}'  speculative  mind,  and  her 
mother  once  more  came  to  her  relief.  "Get  me  the  shears, 
Aunt  Ptttsy, "   she  e^id,      "1  want  to  take  booie  some  of  these 


EPISODES    ON    ALL  SATNTS'    DAT.  205 

flowers."  During  the  servant's  absence,  Lncile  recovered  the 
serenity  of  her  mind.  When  they  were  about  to  leave,  Mrs. 
Hunt  dropped  a  silver  coin  into  the  hands  which  clung  so  lov- 
ingly to  hers.  ^'Dear  Aunt  Patsy,"  she  said,  "don't  worry 
about  the  place;  the  war  will  come  to  an  end,  some  day,  you 
know,  and  every  thing  will  be  all  right  again." 

"Dey  better  stop  dis  yere  fightin'.  Miss  'Lise,  fur  de  place's 
gwine  down  fas'  as  it  kin,  notfurstanding  all  me  an'  my  ole 
man  does  ter  keep  it  a  goin'!" 

According  to  Aunt  Patsey's  opinion,  the  United  States 
was  waging  war  for  the  sole  purpose  and  intent  of  breaking  up 
the  old  plantation,  and  she  resented  the  affront  with  all  the 
vindictiveness  born  of  her  undying  devotion  to  her  young  mas- 
ter and  mistress. 

After  Lucile  and  her  mother  had  given  a  parting  glance 
to  the  bright  blue  waters  of  False  River,  thej'  settled  them- 
selves for  a  silent  and  contemplative  ride.  At  first  there  was 
little  to  interest  them;  the  season  had  been  unusually  dry, 
and  vegetation  along  the  roadside,  had  been  checked  by  the 
drought  and  dust.  On  some  of  the  deserted  sugar  planta- 
tions, the  ripe  cane  stood  in  thick  ranks,  drearily  rustling  its 
leaves  in  the  rising  wind.  But  the  travelers  loved  the  woods; 
the  vine  tressed  trees  and  weeping  mosses,  never  lost  their  at- 
tractions. As  they  passed,  scarlet  and  golden  leaves  drifted 
gently  downwards,  tapping  mournful  farewells  on  their  jour- 
ney to  the  grave.  The  sunlight  pouring  into  woodland  vis- 
tas, contrasted  weirdly  with  the  purple  shadows  beyond,  where 
the  crows  were  holding  noisy  discourse  with  the  obsinate  jays. 
A  white  crane  plumed  itself  on  the  summit  of  an  old  cy- 
press tree.  It  reminded  Lucile  of  a  picture  she  had  drawn 
when  she  was  quite  a  child.  They  left  the  pleasant  woods 
for  the  open   country.      They  passed  rich 'cotton-fields  where 


206  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

the  staple  hung  snowy-white  from  its  bronze-colored  calyxes. 
This  was  a  dollar  a  pound  cotton,  and  yet  it  was  left  there  at 
the  mercy  of  the  elements. 

It  was  high  noon  and  the  carriage  was  about  merging  on 
the  banks  of  Grosse  Tete,  when  a  squad  of  Confederate  soldiers 
dashed  into  the  lane,  a  few  yards  ahead  of  it.  They  were  led 
by  Lieutenant  W. ,  an  intimate  friend  of  the  Hunts. 

The  little  party  drew  rein,  and  the  officer  lifted  his  hat  in 
salutation. 

"Excuse  my  inquisitiveness,  Mrs.  Hunt,"  he  said;  "but 
really,  I  am  curious  to  know  how  far  out  you  have  ridden." 

"We  are  just  from  False  River,  Lieutenant." 

"Indeed!  and  had  an  encounter  with  the  Federals,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"I  am  glad  to  say,  we  were  spared  that  honor,"  answered 
Mrs.  Hunt,  smiling.      "Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Because  it  is  reported  that  the  Essex  landed  several  reg- 
iments somewhere  in  the  vicinity  of  the  church,  and  they  are 
to  be  sent  out  here  on  a  foraging  raid.  We  are  now  on  our 
way  to  ascertain  the  truth  of  this  rumor." 

"Do  you  mean  to  oppose  them  with  that  handful  of 
men?"  asked  Mrs.  Hunt  with  evident  concern. 

"Hardly;  we  are  only  going  to  reconnoitre.  We  may 
have  a  little  skirmish  by  way  of  diversion.  But  it  is  strange 
you  heard  nothing  of  the  enemy's  movement  out  there,  Mrs. 
Hunt." 

"I  saw  no  one  who  could  give  information.  Lieutenant; 
the  housekeeper  at  the  plantation  certainly  knew  nothing  of  it, 
or  else  she  would  have  put  us  on  our  guard." 

While  Lieutenant  W.  and  Mrs.  Hunt  were  thus  talking, 
four  of  the  steeds  strayed  off  with  their  riders  and  began  crop- 
ping the  grass  in  the  corners  of  the  rail -fences.     In  the  mean- 


EPISODES    ON    ALL    SAINTS'  DAY.  207 

time,  one  of  their  number  had  ridden  up    to  the  carriage  win- 
dow where  Lucile  sat. 

"This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,  Lucile;"  he  said,  lifting 
his  cap  from  his  brown  curls.  A  lovely  flush  overspread  the 
girl's  soft  cheeks,  and  she  glanced  shyly  at  Herbert,  from  un- 
der the  curtain  of  her  dark  lashes.  His  eyes  bent  on  her  with 
a  look  full  of  devotional  homage. 

"Lucile,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "I  have  a  message  for 
you." 

"From  whom,  Herbert?" 

"From  Miss  Gresham;  she  commissioned  me  to  deliver  it 
before  Tuesday,  if  possible." 

"Well;"  answered  Lucile,  with  evident  interest. 

"She  wishes  you  and  your  mother  to  attend  her  birthday 
celebration  on  the  fifth." 

"Impossible,  Herbert;  we  are  in  mourning." 

"But,"  interposed  Herbert,  in  a  disappointed  tone  of 
voice,  "she  begged  me  to  explain  that  this  is  to  be  a  private 
affair;  only  a  supper  giA^en  to  a  few  friends — and — and  a  little 
singing,  of  course." 

"Who  are  invited?"  asked  Lucile. 

"Why,  the  Westons,  the  Tracys,  Captain  R.'s  boys,  my- 
self included."  There  was  a  moment's  silence.  '■'^Do  come 
Lucile!"  he  asked  in  a  pleading  voice.  "I  request  this  as  a 
favor." 

The  roses  disappeared  beneath  the  lilies  of  her  faultless 
face;  she  raised  her  expressive  eyes  to  his:  "For  mamma's 
sake,  I  ask  you  not  to  insist,  Herbert!" 

Here,  the  commanding  officer  doffed  his  hat  to  the  fair 
occupants  of  the  carriage ;  in  an  instant,  he  and  his  gallant  fol- 
lowers had  disappeared,  wrapt  in  a  whirl  of  dust 


208  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD  SOUTH. 

That  evening  the  snn  sank  into  a  chaotic  mass  of  black 
clouds,  which  rapidl}'  overspread  the  heavens  and  entirely 
blotted  out  the  twilight.  A  Cimrairean  darkness  was  accom- 
panied by  a  cold,  dreary  rain  which  began  to  beat  upon  the 
house  roof  and  foliage  like  a  Protean  flock,  scampering  across 
the  sands.  The  day  had  been  an  eventful  one  at  the  High- 
lands. The  hands  on  the  place  had  worked  zealously  till  night- 
fall, removing  from  two-fold  danger,  a  lot  of  cotton  to  the 
sawmill  in  Chalpa  Swamp.  From  time  to  time,  squads  of  Con- 
federate soldiers  rode  by,  apparently  in  an  excited  state  of 
mind.  No  wonder,  for  about  four  o'clock  that  evening,  a 
strong  Federal  force  had  began  raiding  around,  driving  otf 
cattle,  and  committing  all  sorts  of  depredations.  The  few 
undiciplined  Confederates  scavtered  about  the  country,  were 
in  no  condition  to  cope  with  these  well  organized  veterans  act- 
ing under  command  of  experienced  officers.  Nevertheless, 
pride  or  a  spirit  of  patriotism  prompted  our  soldiers  to 
make  repeated  attacks  on  the  enemy.  These  bloodless  as- 
saults harrassed,  but  did  not  check  the  invaders,  who  contin- 
ued to  advance  into  the  interior  until  they  reached  the  mouth 
of  the  lane,  where  the}'  began  pitching  their  tents  and  light- 
ing their  camp-fires. 

That  night,  Mr.  Hunt  sat  up  and  read  until  the  clear, 
musical  strokes  of  the  parlor  clock,  chimed  the  eleventh  hour. 
The  rain  was  still  pelting  the  window  shutters  and  the  air  had 
suddenly  grown  chilly.  He  arose  with  the  intention  of  retiring 
and  was  about  taking  up  his  candle,  when  his  attention  was  ar- 
rested by  a  peculiar  sound,  liKe  that  of  footsteps  dragging 
heavily  across  the  gallery  floor.  He  immediatel}-  extinguished 
his  light  and  sprang  to  the  door  to  secure  its  fastenings.  Be- 
sides the  Yankee  troops  which  were  camped  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, the  country  was,  at  that  time,  full  of  "jayhawkers"  auct 


EPISODES    ON    ALL  SAINT'    DAY.  209 

desperadoes;  precautions  against  midnight  intrusions  were 
necessaril}'  prudent.  The  unwelcome  caller  approached  the 
parlor  door,  placed  his  lips  in  contact  with  the  keyhole  and 
spoke,   but  in  a  voice  so  muffled  as  not  to  be  understood. 

"Who  are  you,  and  what  is  your  business?"  demanded 
Mr.  Hunt. 

The  answer  came:  "I  am  a  Confederate  soldier.  I  am 
wounded  and  almost  frozen  to  death.  For  God's  sake,  Mr. 
Hunt,  do  not  refuse  me  a  night's  lodging!" 

"1  will  not  admit  3'ou  unless  you  prove  that  statement,'' 
replied  Mr.  Hunt,  with  firmness.  '-If  you  cannot  do  it,  I  ad- 
vise j'ou  to  leave  the  premises;  for  I  am  not  going  to  be  im- 
posed upon.  " 

"I  took  breakfast  here  this  morning;  the  lady  of  the 
house  spoke  to  me  and  ordered  my  horse  to  be  fed.  Ask  her; 
surely,  she  remembers  that. "' 

'  'We  are  feeding  the  soldiers  and  their  horses  here,  at  all 
hours  of  the  day,  'jayhawkers'  included;"'  responded  Mr. 
Hunt,  in  a  calm,  unyielding  tone  of  voice. 

The  unknown  leaned  heavily  against  door,  and  groaned 
most  pitiously. 

At  this  moment,  Mrs.  Hunt  laid  a  gentle  hand  upon  her 
husband's  arm.  "O  Arthur!"  she  softly  whispered,  "he  is  not 
deceiving  us.  He  suffers;  hear  how  pitifully  he  moans.  Let 
him  in!" 

"It  is  not  difflcult  for  the  scamp  to  feign  suffering.  Go 
to  your  room,  Elise,  I  can  manage  him  very  well  without  j'ou." 

"He  says  he  stopped  here  this  morning;  ask  him  what  he 
had  for  breakfast  and  the  subject  of  our  conversation;  his 
answers  will  surely  remove  your  doubts.  For  the  love  of 
Heaven,  give  him  a  chance!"' 


210  ZULMA,   A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

The  man  gave  ready  and  satisfactory  answers  to  the  ques- 
tions put  to  him.  and  he  was  admitted  without  further  deliber- 
ation. Mrs.  Hunt  recognized  him  at  once,  though  she  found 
it  difficult  to  realize  that  the  ragged,  hatless,  bloody  and  alto- 
gether forlorn  creature  who  staggered  into  her  presence,  was  in 
truth,  the  handsome  and  dashing  young  Texan,  who  had  so 
favorably  impressed  her  the  day  before. 


THE  PATHOS  AND  THE  COMEDY  OF  WAR.        211 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  PATHOS  AND  THE  COMEDY  OF  WAR. 

T  M MEDIATELY  after  breakfast  the  next  morniag,  Mrs. 
'■  Hunt  sought  her  chamber,  where  she  knew  Zulma  was 
busy  at  her  customary  house-work.  She  found  her  standing 
at  one  of  the  open  windows  humming  a  war  song.  After  care- 
fully closing  the  door  behind  her,  Mrs.  Hunt  walked  up  to  the 
girl  and  asked,  tentatively :  '  'Were  any  of  the  soldiers  out  last 
night,  Zulma?" 

"Not  dat  I  knows  of,"  she  replied,  vigorously  shaking  the 
sheets;  "I  wuz  jis'  lookin'  out  dare  fur  ter  see  if  dem  Yankees 
ain't  started  rummagin'.  I  yeard  daj^'s  a  sight  of  'em  out  in  de 
lane." 

"There  is  no  telling  what  mischief  they  will  do  when  they 
once  begin,"  observed  Mrs.  Hunt,  with  a  grave,  preoccupied 
expression  on  her  sweet  face.  There  was  a  pause,  during 
which  her  heart  throbbed  most  violently.  "I  have  something 
very  important  to  tell  you,  Zulma,"  she  resumed,  in  a  confi- 
dential tone;  "something  which  you  must  promise  me  never  to 
divulge  until  I  give  you  leave  to."  Zulma  turned  around  with 
a  look  of  amazement  depicted  on  her  open  countenance.  "Law, 
missis!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  dun  clean  upset  me!" 

"I  didn't  mean  to,"  answered  her  mistress,  smiling  at  the 
girl's  conceit.  "The  secret  I  will  tell  you  will  not  inconveni- 
ence you  in  the  least.     We've  got  into  some  trouble,  and  your 


212  ZULMA,    A    STORY'OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

master  and  I  have  made  up  our  minds  to  ask  you  to  help  us 
out  of  it.  It  is  a  very  serious  matter  to  us — one  upon  which 
depends  the  safety  of  our  home  and  property. " 

''I'll  run  froo  fire  an'  watter  if  you  say  so  missis;"  cried 
Zulma,  with  great  warmth. 

"Oh  we  won't  ask  such  desperate  proofs  of  your  devotion! 
only  your  assistance  and  fidelity. " 

"You  kin  truss  me,"  said  the  girl,  tossing  a  sheet  on  the 
bed  and  leaning  against  one  of  the  posts  in  a  listening  attitude. 

'  'I  shall  have  to  explain  everything  from  the  very  begin- 
ning, that  you  may  clearly  understand  our  position;"  began 
Mrs.  Hunt,  with  an  expression  which  plainl}^  revealed  the 
workings  ol  her  anxious  mind,  and  the  struggles  it  cost  her  to 
pursue  the  course  she  was  about  to  adopt.  '  'Do  you  remember 
the  soldier  who  breakfasted  here  yesterday  morning?" 

"I  doz;  he  was  a  pert  looking  feller!" 

"Well,  he  had  come  from  a  long  distance — from  the  other 
side  of  Atchafalaya  river.  He  was  a  courier  carrying  papers 
which  he  had  to  deliver  at  the  risk  of  his  life.  He  passed 
through  the  woods  and  fields  on  his  return  home,  and  did  not 
know  that  the  Yankees  had  overrun  the  country.  Just  before 
sundown  yesterday  evening,  he  got  out  on  the  road  about  three 
miles  from  here.  He  was  riding  on  very  slowly,  in  a  kind  of 
doze,  for  he  was  very  tired  and  sleep}'.  Suddenly,  he  was 
startled  by  the  report  of  rifles  and  the  whizzing  sound  of  bul- 
lets close  to  his  esr. " 

"Great  goodness!  He  run  plum  inter  de  Yankee  pickets!" 
exclaimed  Zulma. 

"It  must  have  been  a  scout,  for  a  half  a  dozen  men 
sprang  from  the  thick  bushes  on  the  side  of  the  road,  and  called 
on  him  to  halt.  He  threw  himself  from  his  horse  and  plunged 
into  the  cane-brake,  where  he  knew  they  would  not  attempt  to 


THE  PATHOS  AND  THE  COMEDY  OF  WAR.        218 

follow  him.  His  enemies  pursued  him  as  far  as  they  dared, 
shooting  at  him  until  he  got  out  of  their  range.  Though  badly 
wounded,  he  managed  to  get  out  of  the  woods.  He  got  here 
at  about  midnight,  and  begged  us  to  let  him  in.  When  we  did, 
we  saw  that  he  was  in  a  terrible  condition.  He  was  drenched 
to  the  skin,  and  was  so  weak  from  loss  of  blood  he  could  hard- 
ly drag  himself  along.  "We  brought  him  upstairs  and  did  all 
we  could  to  make  him  comfortable.  But  his  arm  was  so  much 
inflamed  that  it  gave  him  fever.  He  is  now  too  ill  to  continue 
his  journey,  and  we  will  have  to  keep  him  until  he  is  able  to 
travel  again." 

"I  nebber  seed  you  turn  out  a  sick  dog,  missis,"  Zulma 
remarked,  with  an  approving  jesture;  "sho'  you  ain't  gwine 
ter  treat  di&  yere  poor  Rebel  wurser!" 

"If  the  Yankees  find  out  that  we  are  harboring  a  Confed- 
erate soldier, "  continued  Mrs.  Hunt,  "they  will  immediately 
surround  the  house  and  take  him  piisoner,  and  perhaps,  will 
make  us  pay  dearly  for  thus  befriending  him." 

''If  dey  does,  dey  ain't  got  a  bit  of  feeling  lef,  an'  I'll  tell 
em  so  ter  dey  faces;"  cried  Zulma,  with  rising  indignation. 

"Now  Zulma,"  pursued  her  mistress,  "I  want  you  to  help 
us  nurse  him,  and  keep  the  negroes  on  the  place  from  finding 
out  that  he  is  in  the  house.  Some  of  them  may  be  tempted  to 
betray  us,  and  we  have  the  best  reason  in  the  world  for  trying 
to  save  him  and  keep  him  from  falling  into  the  hands  of  the 
Yankees — he  is  my  own  dear  cousin." 

Zulma  threw  up  her  hands  in  astonishment.  "Gracious 
goodness!  You  tole  me  you  hadn't  any  kmfolks  in  de  wurl 
'cept  marstar  and  li'l'  mistis. " 

"I  really  thought  so  until  last  night;  when  I  found  out, to 
my  surprise,  that  the  wounded  soldier  is  the  son  of  one  of  my 
uncles  who  had  left  the  parish  years  ago.     We  thought  he  had 


214  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLI>    SOUTH. 

died  but  he  had  gone  to  Texas,  where  he  married  and  left 
a  large  family  of  children." 

'  'Ain't  you  mighty  proud  of  dese  yere  hran  neio  relations^ 
missis?"  asked  Zulma  with  a  beaming  smile. 

"Indeed  I  am,  Zulma,  but  the  dangers  which  now  sur- 
round him  and  threaten  his  life,  malie  me  very  unhappy  and 
spoil  the  pleasure  of  having  him  with  us." 

"You're  skeerin'  yo'self  fur  nuffin'  missis;  nobody  gwine 
ter  tell  on  you,  an'  no  Yankee  gwine  ter  lay  hole  of  dis  yere 
cousin  of  yourn.      Ain't  I  yere  ter  stan'  by  3'ou?" 

True  to  her  promise,  Zulma  became  guardian  spirit  of  the 
household  for  the  time  being.  As  long  as  the  enemy  hovered 
in  the  neighborhood,  she  kept  watch  and  ward,  while  the  fam- 
ily strove  to  quiet  and  soothe  the  patient,  who,  for  many  days, 
tossed  with  fever  and  racking  pains,  upon  a  delirious  bed.  It 
was  she,  who  made  surreptitious  visits  to  the  hen-house  at 
night  and  throttled  the  chickens  for  his  broth.  It  was  she, 
who  outwitted  the  Federals  on  her  way  to  the  drug-shop  and 
smuggled  in  the  doctor.  These  and  numerous  other  services 
she  rendered,  proved  liow  utterly  impotent  would  have  been 
the  family's  devotion  to  their  new  found  relative,  without 
the  concurrence  of  the  faithful  Zulma. 

A  few  hours  after  this  interview,  half  a  dozen  Confederate 
scouts  passed  the  Hunt  place,  just  as  one  of  the  hands  was 
about  driving  his  wagon  out  of  the  stable-3'ard.  They  noticed 
that  it  was  loaded  witli  corn,  on  top  of  which  lay  the  carcas- 
ses of  three  freshly  slaughtered  hogs. 

"Where  are  you  going  with  that  load?"  demanded  one  of 
the  party,  checking  up  his  horse. 

"Hanlin'  it  ter  de  camp  out  dare,  cap'an;"  responded 
Andre,  humbly  pulling  off  his  tattered  hat. 


THE  PATHOS  AXD  THE  COMEDY  OF  WAR.        215 

"You'll  do  no  such  thing,  j-ou  infernal  rascal!"  cried  the 
officer  angrily.      '  'Go  right  back !" 

Mr.  Hunt,  who  was  standing  at  the  crib  door,  started  in 
the  direction  of   the  gate,    and  called  out:     "What's  keeping 

you,  Andre.     Go  on!" 

"Not  while  I  am  here  to  prevent  him,  Mr.  Hunt;"  replied 
the  Confederate,  stationing  himself  in  front  of  the  team. 

Mr.  Hunt  bit  his  lip  with  vexation.  "One  of  the  Federal 
officers  came  here  this  morning  and  ordered  these  provisions  to 
be  sent  to  their  camp.  You  will  only  put  me  in  trouble  by  de- 
laying the  driver.      Move  out  of  the  way,  please." 

"I  advise  you  to  act  with  more  prudence,  Mr.  Hunt,"  sug- 
gested the  corporal,  for  such  he  was.  "If  you  mean  to  take 
advantage  of  your  political  opinions  to  presume — " 

"There  is  no  presumption  m  the  case,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Hunt  with  impatience;  "I  must  either  forward  these  supplies 
as  demanded  or  suffer  the  consequences  of  a  refusal.  Y^our 
regiment  is  indebted  to  me  for  past  courtesies  and  favors 
which  you  know  I  have  never  withheld  from  you,  notwith- 
standing our  differences  of  opinion;  and  I  think  your  intefer- 
ence  untimely,  as  well  as  unreasonable." 

"But  it  is  our  duty  to  prevent  the  enemy  from  getting 
these  provisions,"  answered  the  corporal,  with  an  air  of  au- 
thority. 

"Under  different  circumstances  it  would  have  been  your 
duty,  I  acknowledge ;  but  this  is  an  exceptional  case.  Com- 
plications which  I  cannot  now  explain,  compel  me  to  avoid 
an  unpleasant  encounter  with  the  Federals.  I  hope  you  will 
accept  my  reasons  without  further  argument,  corporal." 

"But  you  are  too  easily  intimidated,"  persisted  the  subor- 
dinate. "I  assure  you,  the  Y^ankees  will  not  hold  you  account- 
able for  our  proceedings.     They  will  readily  understand  that 


216  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

you  had  to  submit — much  against  your  inclination — to  a  supe- 
rior authority.'" 

"Your  reasoning,  though  logical,  will  not  serve  the  pur- 
pose;" answered  Mr.  Hunt,  leisurely  taking  out  his  watch. 
"It  is  not  supposed  that  the  Federals  will  brook  a  delay.  In 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  periiaps  before,  they  will  send  out  another 
scout  to  ascertain  the  cause  of  it.  And  you,  gentlemen,  will 
have  the  satisfaction  of  contesting  through  the  agency  of  bul- 
lets, the  contents  of  the  wagon. "  He  politely  touched  his  hat, 
and  turning  on  his  heels,  left  them  to  their  own  devices. 

A  look  of  consternation  swept  over  Andre's  countenance. 
He  stepped  within  the  enclosure  and  bawled  out: 

"Marslar,  mus'  me  an'  de  mules  stand  'mongst  dem  bul- 
lits?" 

"Close  up!"  answered  one  of  the  soldiers,  pointing  his  re- 
volver at  the  friglitened  negro. 

Confounded  by  Mr.  Hunts  cool  an<l  abrupt  decision,  the 
patriots  stood  for  a  moment  like  equestrian  statues,  stupidly 
gazing  after  him. 

At  length,  the  corporal  glanced  down  the  road,  then  at 
the  trembling  driver,  who  was  now  rolling  up  his  eyes  in  silent 
appeal. 

"D — m  you!"  he  cried,  with  an  impatient  gesture;  "Drive 
on!" 

"Does  ye  mean  down  the  road,  marstar?  '  timorously,  in- 
quired the  freed  man. 

"Yes — and  to  the  devil!"  answered  the  officer,  putting 
spurs  to  his  horse  and  turning  in  the  opposite  direction. 

"T'anks  ter  de  Lawd!  '  enjaculated  the  teamster,  starting 
off  with  alacrity  towards  the  Federal  camping  grounds.  "No 
governmint  paid  dis  yei-e  nigger  fur  ter  git  hisself  kilt!" 

Late  m  tli^  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  Zulma  was  cleaning 
3,  lot  of  moHS  under  one  of  the  sheds  in  the  poultry-yard.      Her 


THE  PATHOS  AND  THE  COMEDY  OF  WAR.        217 

fingers  flew  in  and  out  of  the  glossy  fibre,  keeping  time  with 
the  merry  songs  which  flowed  in  a  continuous  strain  from  her 
melodious  throat.  Some  local  poet  had  composed  the  lines 
which  had  been  adapted  to  the  delectable  aria  of  "Root  Pig  or 
Die."  The  words  were  not  unsuited  to  the  air,  but  were  cer- 
tainly at  variance  with  the  voice  which  conveyed  them. 

'•ril  tell  you  what  it  is, 

I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  thinking, 

I  have  no  fears  of  old  Abe  Lincoln; 
For  when  he  sends  his  boys  down, 

We  always  make  them  cry: 
We  never  can  subdue  the  South, 

So  run  Yank  or  die." 

Zulma  had  scarcely  ended  the  first  stanza  when  the  noise 
of  scudding  hoofs  arrested  lier  attention.  The  riders  came 
tearing  up  the  road,  crossed  the  bridge  and  strode  up  the  ac- 
clivity with  clash  of  steel  and  jingle  of  spurs.  When  they 
reached  the  level  road,  they  halted  and  carefully  surveyed  their 
surroundings. 

"Dem  fellers  hatching  some  mischief!"  thought  Zulma  to 
herself.      "I's  gwiue  ter  see  w'at  dey  up  to." 

She  squated  behind  the  pile  of.  moss,  and  watched  their 
manoeuvres.  Though  she  deemed  it  prudent  to  make  no  vio- 
lent demonstrations,  her  heart  beat  violently  in  her  bosom, and 
she  found  it  hard  to  control  her  resentment.  The  blue-coated 
scamps  rode  to  tbe  gate  and  unceremoniously  flung  it  open. 
As  they  met  with  no  opposition,  they  began  chasing  the  fowls 
around,  slashino;  at  them  with  their  long,  glittermg  svv^ords. 
Zulma  endured  this  ordenl  for  a  time,  but  her  indignation  soon 
got  the  better  of  her,  and  she  suddenly  emerged  from  her  hid- 
ing place  and  boldly  confronted  the  marauders. 

"Hello  Yankees!"  she  cried.  "Stop  whacking  off  de 
heads  of  dem  chickens.  Was  it  fur  dat  Lincun  sen'  you  down 
yere?" 


218  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"No,"  one  of  them  answered  turnins;  around  with  a  good 
humored  laugh,   "he  sent'us  to  free  all  you  niggers." 

"Lincua  better  ten'  ter  his  own  business.  ^Ye  niggers  is 
doin'  very  well  yere!" 

"Let  me  look  at  your  back,  Betsy;  and  I'll  let  you  know 
whether  you  stand  in  need  of  freedom  or  not." 

"If  dey's  marks  dare,  Mr.  Hunt  never  put  'em  on;  an'  I. 
let  you  know  my  name  ain't  Betsy,  neider — you  sassy  Yankee, 
you." 

"All  right!"  said  the  man,  scurrying  around  the  lot,  "I'm 
too  busy  to  attend  to  you  just  now."  He  had  started  after  a 
flock  of  hens  which  scampered  on  outstretched  wings  and  scat- 
tered in  every  direction.  Among  them  was  a  stately  Shanghai, 
the  monarch  of  the  flock.  Though  too  nnwieldly  to  fly  over 
the  fence,  he  contrived  by  brisk  and  sudden  detours,  to  elude 
the  gleaming  weapon  whicn  plied  most  valiantl}'  about  his 
head  Somewhat  disconcerted,  the  pursuer  drew  his  bridle 
rein,  and  turning  to  Zulma,  said: 

"Head  that  rooster,  will  you?" 

"You  bet  I  won't!"  she  replied,  shaking  her  apron  to 
frighten  off  her  favorite.  "Shoo,  Sultin!  shoo!  ain't  you  got 
sense  'nough  to  know  dis  yere  man's  after  your  blood?*' 

"Doggone  you!"  cried  the  disappointed  Yankee,  "when 
I  go  back  to  \Yashington,  I  mean  to  get  the  government  to 
scratch  your  name  off  the  list  of  freed  niggers." 

"You  fix  me  jist  right!"  answered  .Zulma,  with  a  defiant 
toss  of  her  head.  "T  aint  got  de  fust  idea  of  leaving  dis  yere 
place." 

"Lookee  here,  girl,"  said  his  companion,  pointing  to  some 
fowls  which  lay  fluttering  on  the  grass;  "hand  me  those, 
double-quick,  or  I'll  put  a  bullet  through  that  ugly,  black  heart 
of  yours." 


THE  PATHOS  AND  THE  COMEDY  OF  WAR.        219 

"You  mean  it  dem  Rebs  over  dere  give  you  a  chance," 
she  responded,  pointing  with  a  malicious  chuckle  down  the 
road.  The  chicken  thieves  followed  the  glance  of  her  dancing 
eye,  and  to  their  dismay,  discovered  a  dozen  Confederates  rid- 
ing towards  them  at  full  gallop.  With  a  smothered  cr)%  the 
unprincipled  rascals  bounded  off  like  a  flash  of  light.  Zulma 
clapped  her  hands  and  screamed  with  delight.  She  then  ran 
to  the  brow  of  the  hill  to  have  a  better  view  of  the  chase. 
"Run,  Yankee,  run!"  she  cried,      "Run  Yank  or  die!" 

The  clatter  of  their  horses'  hoofs  had  almost  died  in  the 
distance,  when  the  Confederates  rode  furiously  by.  "Go  it, 
Reb!  Gro  it!"  shouted  Zulma,  as  they  passed.  She  then  gave 
vent  to  the  exuberance  of  her  mirth  in  peals  of  laughter,  which 
the  woods  across  the  bayou,  flung  back  in  fantastic  echoes. 
L  "I  'clare,"  she  remarked  to  Aunt  Polly,  the  cook,  who  had 
crept  up  after  all  danger  was  passed.  "T  'clare,  I  nebber 
laugh  so  much  in  my  born  days  as  I  did  after  dem  Yankees 
runnin'  off  from  dem  two  chickens.  War  is  heap  funnier  den 
a  eurkis!" 

"I  reckin  it  is,  ter  a  fool  nigger  like  3'ou,  Zulma,"  an- 
swered Aunt  Polly,  looking  straight  before  her.  "You  aint 
got  sense  'nough  ter  know  w'at  dev's  fightin'  'bout." 

"An'  I  ain't  gw'ne  to  crack  my  head  open  tryin'  ter  fin' 
out,"  responded  Zalma,  with  a  knowing  look.  "All  I  knows 
'bout  it  is,  dem  Coufederites'  mighty  handy,  w'en  de  Yanks  is 
cleanin'  out  yo'  ehickin  yard," 


230  ZFLMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH, 


CHAPTER  XXT. 

THE   COUSINS. 

nPHE  eventful  week  vanished  at  last,  and  with  it,  departed 
*■     the    authors   of  its  manifold  terrors    and   disturbances. 
The  invaders  had  sustained  a  variety  of  assaults  from  Captain 
R.  's  gallant  boys,  who  glorified  in  giving  them  a  specimen  of 
their  skill  and   valor   whenever  the  occasion  presented  itself. 
These   skirmishes  and  sallies   took  place,    each   time  foraging 
scouts  were  sent    out,  or  whenever  camp  epicureans  undertook 
to  explore  the   planters'  poultry  yards.      Without  these  whole- 
some and, timely  restraints  on  the  enemy's  rapacity,  their  depre- 
dations would  have  been  unlimited    and    irreparable.        When 
the  last    Federal    straggler    had   scudded    out  of  sight,  and  a 
sense   of    security    had    once    more  settled  in  their  midst,  the 
people  of  G-ross  Tete,  figuratively,  drew  a  long  breath  and  men- 
tally congratuhited  themselves  on  their  happy  delivery   from 
their  hostile  visitors.       As   the  school  on   Fordorche  had  been 
suspended  during  the  invasion,  Lucile  shared  with  her  parents 
the  anxieties  and  fatigues  entailed  upon  them  by  the  illness  of 
the    stranger    who    had  so  inauspiciously  thrust  himself  under 
their  roof.      For  nearly  a  week,  the  wounded  man  lay  stricken 
with   fever;    he   was  too  weak  and  helpless  to  be  cognizant  of 
the  perils  which  surrounded  him.  His  strongest  mental  ex- 

ertion, seemed  directed  towards  Mrs.  Hunt,  his  gentle  nurse, 
who  constantly  applied  cooling  lotions  to  the  throbbing  wound 
on  his  arm,  and  soothed   his  sufferings  by  the  touch   of  her 


THE    COUSINS.  '  221 

soft  bands  upon  his  fevered  brow.  Sometimes  he  followed 
with  listless  eyes — sometimes  with  a  puzzled  expression, 
her  movements  as  she  silently  administered  to  his  wants.  On 
the  third  day  of  his  illness,  he  awoke  with  a  clearer  conscious- 
ness of  his  actual  condition,  and  he  met  his  cousm's  eyes 
with  a  smile  saying;  "I  remember  the  circumstance  of  my  en- 
counter with  the  Yankees  and  your  kindness  in  giving  me 
shelter  for  the  night;  — but —  I  must  have  dreamed  of  having 
accidentally  discovered  that  we  were  related  to  each  other. 
IThis  IS  undoubtedly  a  vagarj^  of  my  wandering  mind."    - 

Mrs.  Hunt,  who  was  at  that  moment  standing  at  his  bedside, 
ireturned  his  eager,  questioning  gaze  with  a  look  full  of  com- 
passionate interest,  "it  is  no  dream,  no  idle  fancy,"  she  an- 
swered, affectionately,  placing  her  hand  upon  his  forehead. 
''Our  fathers  were  brothers,  and  you  are  my  own  dear  thrice 
welcome  kinsman. 

"You  are  more  than  kin  to  me,"  he  said  drawing  to  his 
lips,  the  white  hand  that  lay  caressingly  on  his  head.  "You 
are  my  angel  guardian,  you  saved  my  life!" 

Mrs.  Hunt  hastilj'  withdrew  her  hand  from  his  warm  clasp. 

'  'I  have  acted  towards  you ;  dear  cousin,  as  I  would  have 
idone  towards  any  of  our  soldiers  under  similar  circumstances; 
I  only,  my  solitude  in  your  behalf  was  augmented  and  my 
I  affection,  naturally,  awakened  by  reason  of  the  family  ties 
'which  unite  us." 

"How  can  I  ever  repay  you  for  all  you've  done  for  me?" 
I  he  said,  closing  his  dark-grey  eyes  to  hide  the  tears  which  suf- 
i fused  them. 

I  '  'By  holding  me  in  your  loving  remembrance,  dear  cousin ;" 

(answered  Mrs.  Hunt,  struggling  to  hide  her  emotions;  "and 
iby  making  this  your  home  until  your  health  permits  j'ou  to 
irejoin  your  regiment." 


222  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"How  long  have  I  been  here?"  the  young  man  asked;  sud- 
denly opening  his  eyes. 

"Three  days,  exactly." 

"Then  I  must  have  been  very  ill,"  he  observed,  with  a 
slight  contraction  of  his  eyebrows.  "I  recollect  nothing  that 
transpired  during  that  interval,  except  seeing  people  moving 
about  my  bed — others,  beside  you,  were  there  not,  cousin?" 

"You  saw  my  husband  and  one  of  our  faithful  servants." 

"Your  face  seems  very  familiar  to  me." 

"No  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Hunt  smiling. 

"I  have  forgotten  your  name;"  he  remarked,  laying  his 
hand  upon  her  arm. 

"Indeed  you  have  not,  for  I  never  mentioned  it  to  you. 
Elise  is  my  name." 

"Have  you  no  children?" 

"Yes;  one  daughter.  Now,  Cousin  Eugene,  I  mean  to 
assume  the  character  of  an  obdurate  nurse,  and  I  shall  begin 
by  imposing  strict  silence  until  after  you  have  taken  some 
nourishment.  Shall  I  bring  you  some  broth?  We  have  hitherto 
been  givmg  it  to  you  without  your  leave;"  she  added,  giving 
him  a  bright,  cheerful  look. 

"Yes,  I  will  take  anything  you  bring  me."  But  his 
momentary  interest  seemed  wavering,  and  his  eyelids  involun- 
tarily fell  upon  his  cheeks  as  in  restful  slumber.  Mrs.  Hunt 
drew  the  curtain  across  the  window  and  noiselessly  stepped  out 
of  the  apartment. 

In  the  third  week  of  November,  the  interesting  patieut  had 
sufficiently  recovered  his  health  to  join  the  famil}^  circle,  and 
even  to  accompriuy  Mr.  Hunt  in  his  long  walks  through  the 
fields.  His  convalescence  had  boen  sipant  most  pleasantly  and 
profitably  in  the  bosom  of  his  new-found  friends  and  kinsmen. 
The  atmosphere  of  ease,  love  and  refinement  which  surrounded 


THE   COUSINS.  223 

him,  was  an  agreeable  contrast  to  his  recent  life  of  turmoil  and 
hardship,  and  he  accepted  the  transition  with  that  quiescence 
and  self-complacency,  which  doubtless  hastened  his  recovery. 
The  weather  in  the  latter  part  of  this  month,  was  deliciously 
warm,  and  Mr.  Hunt  drove  his  wife's  cousin  out  to  False  River 
to  satisfy  his  longing  to  look  upon  tUe  scene  of  his  father's 
youth;  he  wished  to  ramble  among  the  deserted  apartments  of 
the  quaint  old  home,  to  saunter  beneath  the  aged  trees  and 
over  the  grounds,  once  so  familiar  to  his  parent.  He  returned 
to  Grosse  Tete  with  his  mind  full  of  retrospective  ideas.  This 
was  the  first  long  ride  Eugene  had  taken  since  his  illness,  and 
he  complained  of  fatigue.  Lucile  brought  him  a  glass  of  wine ; 
it  was  homemade,  but  clear  as  crystal,  and  as  fragrant  as  am- 
brosia; the  effects  were  immediately  beneficial. 

The  Hunts  were  particularly  fond  of  the  open  air,  and 
they  took  their  seats  on  the  gallery  to  enjoy  the  perfectly 
lovely  weather.  The  rayless  disk  of  the  sun,  long  past  the 
meridian,  hung  like  a  red  ball  in  the  grey  atmosphere.  Nature 
had  donned  her  most  gorgeous  attire.  The  double  row  of 
young  china  trees  which  shaded  the  roadside,  dazzled  the  eyes 
with  the  splendor  of  their  golden  foliage.  The  languishing 
breeze  wafted  the  sweet  odor  of  the  olive  flowers.  Close  to 
the  steps,  a  rose-bush,  invigorated  by  the  late  rains,  had  thrust 
out  half  a  dozen  stalks  which  bent  over  with  the  weight  of 
superb  buds,  just  bursting  into  beauty  and  fragrance.  They 
were  the  last  gifts  of  autumn.  Conversation  was  reminiscent, 
^'■Corne  a  ChevreuiV  being  the  chief  and  most  interesting  topic. 
At  length,  Mr.  Hunt  was  called  away,  and  his  wife  returned  to 
her  domestic  occupations.  The  burden  of  conversation 
then  fell  on  the  young  people.  Lucile  was  industriously  stitch- 
ing the  cloth  destined  to  shape  the  cap  which  was  to  replace 
the  one  her  cousin  had  lost  in  his  hasty  retreat  from  the  Fed- 


224  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

eral  scouts.      Her  occupation  served  as  a  vent   to  lier  girlish 
timidity,  for  she  plied  her  flngeis  with  unwonted  energy  when- 
ever she  was  at  loss  for  a  suitahl3  answer  to  any  of  her  cousin's 
questions,  or  was  in  anyway  abashed  by  his  careless  and  can- 
did remarks.     There  was  a  certain  congeniality  between  the 
young  cousins,  and  they  had  grown  quite  fond  of  each  other's 
society.      The  novelty  of   possessing  a  relative   outside  of  her 
own  family  was  a  fact  so  delightful  to   Lucile,    that  she  inad- 
vertantly disclosed  to  him  the  many   admirable  traits  of  her 
mind  and  fascinated  him   with  her  frank,  winning  ways;  con- 
sequently, he  was  falling   desperately  in  love  with   her.      She 
was  so  young  and  affectionate,    he  imagined  it    would    be  a 
sweet  and  easy  task  to  win  her  gentle  and  untutored  heart,  for 
he  had  every  reason  to  believe  that  it  had  never  awakened  to 
tenderer  emotions  than  those    she  cherished  for    her  parents. 
Had  Lucile  been  a  coquette,  she  would  have  embraced  a  splen- 
did opportunity  of  carrying  on  a  flirtation  with  her  handsome 
relative,  but  she  was  too  scrupulousl}'  honest  to  give  encour- 
agement of  that  sort,    when  her  affections  had  been  tacidly 
pledged  to  another.      Several    times  during  the  course  of    the 
evening,   Lucile's    violet  eyes  dropped  beneath  her    cousin's 
earnest  gaze  of  admiration.      Her  embarrassment  only  led  him 
to  believe   that  she  was  not  altogether  indifferent  to  his  grow- 
ing attachment,  and  it  filled  his  heart  with   pride  to  know  that 
he  might  one   day,  win  the  heart  and  hand  of  the  lovely  girl, 
upon  whom  nature  seemed  to  have  lavished  her  choicest  gifts. 
These  pleasant  reflections  on  the   part  of    the   sanguine    lover 
were  somewhat   unexpectedly  interrupted  by  a  caller.     There 
tripped  up   the   alley,  a  young  girl,  resplendent  in  pink  calico. 
By  the   way,  a  calico  gown  was  not  to    be    despised   at    this 
particular  period  of  the  war.       On    the   contrary,    the   article 
was  prized  above  silks,    velvets,  or   any    of  those  costly  fab- 


THE    COUSINS.  225 

rics  which  savored  of  ante-bellum  fineries  and  made-over  gar- 
ments. In  those  days,  the  height  ot  feminine  ambition,  was 
the  possession  of  a  bran-new  calico  gown.  No  wonder  Nan- 
nie Dawsey  hurried  off  to  make  a  display  of  hers;  very  few 
of  the  Grosse  Tete  girls  could  boast  of  such  an  acquisition. 
She  had  heard  of  the  distinguished  3'oung  officer  tarrying 
at  Highland,  and  came  with  the  intentions  of  making  an 
impression.  "This  twenty  dollar  gown  will  surely  settle  him;" 
she  said,  gayly  wending  her  way;  "if  it  don't,  I  should  like  to 
know  what  will?" 

"What  young  lady  is  that,  Cousin  Lucile?"  asked  young 
Lafitte.  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  lissome  figure  glancing 
through  the  shrubbery. 

"The  daughter  of  one  of  our  neighbors,  and  a  schoolmate 
of  mine." 

"Isn't  she  pretty?"  he  whispered,  bringing  his  lips  to  a 
close  proximity  to  his  cousin's  dainty  ear.  '  'She's  like  a  picture 
cut  out  of  a  frame. ' 

Nannie  smilingly  planted  her  foot  on  the  lower  rank  of  the 
front  steps,  and  stood  there,  for  a  few  seconds,  silently  con- 
templating the  couple.  Her  attitude  was  in  keeping  with  the 
mischievous  expression  on  her  fresh,  young  face. 

"Come  up,  Nannie,"  said  Lucile,  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

"Thank  you;  it's  not  my  intention  to  pose,  Lucile;" 
answered  she,  running  up  the  steps. 

Lucile  introduced  her  to  her  cousin. 

"Oh!  let  us  shake  hands,"  cried  Nannie.  "I  am  so  glad 
you  came — that  is  so  glad  on  Lucile's  account.  She  has  always 
been  wishing  for  uncles  and  aunts  and  cousins.  I  know  she's 
perfectly  happy  now  that  you  have  turned  up." 


226  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"I  cannot  answer  for  my  cousin's  sentiments,  Miss  Daw- 
sey;"  answered  Eugene,  casting  a  side  glance  at  Lucile.  "I 
can  only  vouch  for  mine. " 

"You  wouldn't  ask  for  a  nicer  set  of  relations,  would  you? 
I'm  sure  Lucile  can't  object  to  youV 

"It  would  grieve  me  to  l^now  that  she  did;"  answered  the 
young  man,  laughing. 

Nannie  settled  herself  in  Mr.  Hunt's  armchair,  and  criti- 
cally surveyed  the  stranger.  "And  so  you're  a  Texan?"  she 
ventured  to  ask. 

"I'm  proud  to  acknowledge  the  fact,  miss;"  he  answered 
with  an  inclination  of  the  head. 

"You  don't  look  a  bit  like  those  Texans  I  once  saw.  They 
were  ferocious,  rough  looking  fellows,  dressed  in  yellow  home- 
spun clothes.  They  were  far  more  ambitious  of  getting  into 
people's  watermelon  patches  than  fights  with  the  Yankees; 
and  they  struck  me  as  being  the  dirtiest  and  greediest  set  of 
men  I  ever  laid  eyes  on;  they  didn't  seem  to  have  a  spark  of 
patriotism  about  them." 

"Why  Nannie!"  exclaimed  Lucile.  "How  can  you  make 
fun  of  those  brave  men,  who  fought  so  gallantly  in  the  defense 
of  our  State?" 

A  wave  of  color  surged  over  the  officer's  pale  cheeks, 

"Those  very  Texans  you  ridicule  and  disparage,  belonged 
to  General  Green's  army.  I  am  one  of  his  couriers  and  know 
from  personal  observations  that  a  braver  and  more  valiant  set 
of  men  never  took  up  arms  in  defense  of  the  Confederacy." 

Nannie  opened  her  eyes  in  astonishment  at  the  young 
man's  resentment.  "My  goodness!"  she  cried.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  insult  you!" 

Lucile  cast  a  swift,  uneasy  glance  at  her  cousin,  and  said 
in  a  pacifying  tone  of  voice:      "Nannie  was  trying  to  tease  you, 


THE    COUSINS.  227 

Cousin  Eugene.  If  you  were  to  bear  her  sing  Colonel  Hamilton 
Washington's  song  of  defiance,  you  would  think  she  was  a  real 
Texas  girl.  Now,  Nannie,  you  must  sing  it  to  atone  for  your 
careless  and  unkind  remarks." 

"I  never  go  back  on  my  word,  Lucile, "  answered  Nannie, 
rising.  "I'm  going  to  Rosanna's,  have  you  a  message  to  send." 
This  with  a  significant  elevation  of  her  eyebrows. 

''Give  her  my  love." 

"B}'  the  by,  when  do  3'ou  intend  coming  back  to  school?" 
demanded  Nannie.  "Mr.  Gilbert  hasn't  given  you  your  di- 
ploma, I  hope?" 

"Will  the  fact  excite  your  envy?  I  am  surprised  at  your 
solicitude  regarding  my  education." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  a  bit  bothered  about  you.  I  only  want 
you  to  come  back  to  help  me  with  my  sums.  I  can't  bluff 
the  professor  much  longer,  you  know.  He's  losing  faith  in 
my   everlasting  headaches." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  be  more  self-reliant,  Nannie,  and 
not  depend  on  others  to  do  your  work.  How  can  3'ou  ever 
finish  your  education,  unless  you  apply  yourself  to  your  stud- 
ies?" 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  Nannie,  twirling  on  her  forefinger, 
her  pretty  palmetto  hat.  "Everybody  hasn't  the  same  tastes. 
All  the  professors  in  the  world  couldn't  turn  me  into  a  book- 
worm, much  less  into  a  mathematician.  I  wasn't  cut  out  to 
be  a  'blue  stocking'  like  you,  Lucile." 

"Why  Nannie,  I  haven't  the  remotest  idea  of  becoming  a 
literary  woman!" 

"I  reckon  not,  as  long  as  Herbert  Davis  dances  attend- 
ance on  you." 

The  color  leaped  into  Lucile's  face,  but  she  refrained  from 
making  an  unkind  retort.     Her  cousin  noticed,  with  surprise 


228  ZITLMA,    A    STORY   OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

and  concern,  her  painful  embarrassment.     Nannie  broke  into  a 
rippling  laugh. 

"My,  Lucile!"  she  exclaimed.  People  needn't  hunt  for 
roses  when  you  are  about.  They  have  only  to  say:  ^^ Sesame," 
and  out  they  blow!  But  really  I  must  be  going.  Bud  is  out 
there  holding  my  pony,  and  I  must  not  keep  him  waiting.  I 
only  came  in  to  know  whether  you're  ever  coming  back  to 
8chool,  Lucile?" 

'  'I  think  of  returning  next  Monday. " 
"Then,    I  advise  you   to  overlook    'Organic   Chemistry.' 
We  are  to   pass   examination   at  the  close  of  the   month,  you 
know." 

"I'm  ready  for  the  ordeal,  thauk  you,  Nannie.'' 
"Now,  I'm  going,"  reiterated  the  girl,  with  unusual  trepi- 
dition  in  her  manners.      I   hope  you're  not  mad   with  me;"  she 
said  at  last,  thrusting  out  her  hand  to  Mr.  Lafitte. 

"Certainly  not, "  he  answered.  "I  am  sorry  I  allowed  your 
remarks  to  iritate  me.  " 

"Oh  never  mind  that!  Myself  I  have  a  temper.  May  I 
have  one  of  these  roses,  Lucile?"  Nannie  asked,  stooping  over 
the  bush  near  the  steps.  T  want  one  for  Herbert  in  case  I  find 
him  at  home. "' 

"Is  Herbert  her  sweetheart?"'  asked  Eugene. 

Lucile's  heart  gave  a  great  throb. 

"No;"  she  answered,  with  a  quiver  in  her  voice.  Herbert 
and  Nannie  are  so  unlike  in  disposition,  I  imagine  they  are  not 
very  congenial." 

"Oh,  that  does  not  signify!  Cousin  Lucile.  I  have  known 
people  of  opposite  characters,  and  tastes,  to  fall  desperately 
in  love  with  each  other." 

"Indeed!"  and  Lucile  stared  at  him  with  a  look  of  aston- 
ishment.     "I  thought  that  there  could  be  no  love   between 


THE  COUSINS.  229 

people  without  a  certain  amount  of  affinity  to  attract  them. 
Now,  papa  and  mamma  are  devoted  to  each  other,  but  they 
are  congenial.  Nannie  is  what  j'ou  would  call  a  frivolous  girl; 
Herbert  is  of  a  serious,  studious  turn  of  mind;  how  can  there 
be  any  sympathy  between  them?" 

"The  very  fact  of  this  difference  in  their  character,  maj' 
be  the  magnet  between  them.  Poles  containing  different  kinds 
of  fluids,  naturally  attract  each  other.  It  is  very  possible,  that 
the  mind  is  controlled  by  similar  natural  laws,  as  these  external 
objects.'" 

•'Then  I  must  be  different  from  everybody  else;"  pursued 
Lucile,  'for  I  love  best  those  friends  who  most  resemble  me 
in  disposition.'' 

"How  many  friends  have  you.  Cousin  Lucile?" 

"Hosts  of  them;  but  I  love  only  a  few  very  dearly." 

The  young  man's  sombre  eyes  looked  into  hers  with  keen 
scrunity:      "Tell  me  their  names,  please." 

•'Rosanna,  Herbert  and  Corine!" 

"And  who  is  this  Herbert,  anyway?"  he  asked  with  an 
impatient  gesture. 

"Herbert  Davis  is  the  son  of  one  of  our  neighbors,  and  a 
whilom  schoolmate  of  mine.  You  must  not  ask  me  who  any- 
body else  is,  for  you  will  find  my  answers  somewhat  monoto- 
nous." 

"T  \vant  you  to  add  another  name  to  your  list,  cousin 
mine." 

"Yours?"  suggested  Lucile,  with  a  co}-  look. 

"Yes;  it  is  to  be  carved  first  and  foremost  on  the  tablet 
of  your  memory,  and  it  must  be  underscored  so  as  to  be  prom- 
inent and  distinct  from  the  others  inscribed  upon  it." 

Lucile  turned  upon  him,  her  sweet,  ingenuous  counte- 
nance, saying:  "You  are  really  ?oo  exigent.  Cousin  Eugene, 
You  must  be  satisfied  where  I  put  you." 


230  ZULMA,     A    STORY   OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"I  will,  provided  you  put  me  where  I  wish  to  be.  And 
remember  I  cannot  brook  a  rival." 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  replied  Lucile  looking  up  with  a  bright 
smile.      "I  shall  never  permit  any  one  to  usurp  your  place." 

A  feeling  akin  to  disappointment  crept  into  the  young 
man's  heart.  A  moment  ago,  it  was  his  ardent  desire  to  win 
his  cousin's  aflfections.  Now,  he  almost  wished  that  Lucile 
were  less  susceptible,  and  would  give  him  a  chance  to  struggle 
for  her  love.  He  disliked  the  idea  of  her  unconditional  sur- 
render, and  was  at  loss  how  to  accept  it.  While  these  uncourte- 
ous  reflections  filled  his  mind,  his  eyes  wondered  over  her  fault- 
less face  and  he  suddenly  caught  the  frank,  innocent  expres- 
sion in  hers.  He  was  stricken  with  remorse,  and  a  longing  to 
win  her  pure,  undivided  love,  once  again    flooded  his  heart. 

"Do  you  really  intend  going  back  to  school  next  Monday?" 
he  asked,  drawing  his  chair  nearer  to  hers. 

"Did  you  not  hear  me  tell  Nannie  that  such  was  my  inten- 
tion. I  have  already  lost  three  weeks. "  She  fluttered  like  a 
bird  entangled  in  a  net. 

"Dear  Lucile,  do  you  regret  the  time  you  lost?" 

He  leaned  over  and  laid  his  fingers  tenderly  upon  her  hair, 
which  hung  in  a  lustrous  braid  across  her  shoulder.  Lucile 
shrank  from  his  touch  with  unconcealed  displeasure  and  began 
putting  up  her  work. 

"Of  course  not;"  she  faltered,  "I  should  not  have  made 
your  acquaintance  had  I  gone." 

"I  too,  will  take  my  departure  sometime  next  week.  Will 
you  miss  me,  Lucile?" 

"I'm  sure,  we  shall  aZ/  miss  you;  but  you  v/ill  visit  us 
again,  will  you  not,  causin?" 

''My  return  will  depend  on  circumstances." 


THE    COUSINS.  .  231 

''That's  true;  a  soldier  is  not  at  liberty  to  go  where  he 
pleases;"  rejoined  Lucile,  fixing  upon  him  ej'es  overbrimming 
with  candor. 

"My  destiny  is  in  your  hands,  my  precious  cousin;  and 
j'our  heart  shall  decide  whether  I  shall  ever  see  you  again." 

There  was  something  in  her  cousin's  voice  which  ruffled 
the  serenitv  of  Lucile's  mind,  and  she  rose  from  her  seat  with 
such  precipitation,  that  a  ball  of  cotton  thread  rolled  out  of 
her  basket.  He  scrambled  across  the  floor  in  pursuit,  and 
thumped  his  head  against  the  balustrade,  just  as  the  ball  rolled 
from  the  gallery  into  the  parterre. 

"Oh,  my  dear  cousin!  Did  you  break  your  head?''  asked 
Lucile,  suppressing  a  laugh. 

"I  am  generally  more  expert  with  my  right  hand;"  replied 
Eugene,  glancing  at  his  bandaged  arm.  "But  I'm  curious  to 
know,"  added  he,  turning  his  dark-grey  eyes  upon  Lucile, 
"whether  I  would  be  more  successful  if  I  were  to  make  an  at- 
tempt to  capture  somebody's  heart?" 

"If  you  do, "  suggested  Lucile  with  a  mischievous  look, 
"I  advise  you  to  begin  before  j'our  arm  is  out  of  the  sling." 

"And  why  should  I?"  he  asked,  in  a  constrained,  uneasy 
tone  of  voice. 

"Because  you  look  so  interesting  that  way.  You  could 
work  on  one's  feelings,  with  so  much  facility,  it  seems  to  me." 

'  'If  I  knew  my  chances  were  going  to  be  diminished,  I 
would  try  the  experiment  on  you,  fair  cousin. " 

"Spare  yourself  the  trouble;"  answered  Lucile,  with 
heightened  color.  '  'My  heart  is  not  to  be  disposed  of.  And — 
and  I  must  inform  you  that  you  have  no  right  to  speak  to  me 
in  that  waj'. " 

An  undefinible  expression  lighted  up  Eugene  Lafitte's 
handsome  face  as  he  muttered:     "Forgive  me,  I  did  not  mean 


232  ZULMv^.,  A  STORY  OP  THE  OLD  SOUTH. 

to  offend  you,  Lucile.     I  was  over- hasty  and  inconsiderate." 
'< You  are  excusable, "  answered  Lucile  somewhat  coldly. 
"But — some  day,  dear  cousin,"  he  continued,  "after  the 
war  is  over  and  I  have  won  laurels  to  lay  at  your  feet,  will  you 
not  grant  me  the  privilege  of  sueing  for  your  love?" 

The  girl  threw  out  her  little  hand  in  a  frightened,  depre- 
cating manner.  "1  love  you  already,  as  much  as  T  ever  shall 
— as  much  as  mamma  does!"  she  explained.  "You  must  not 
speak  to  me  on  that  subject  again.  I  have  the  best  reasons  in 
the  world  to  forbid  it.  Cousin  Eugene." 

This  sudden  revolution  in  Lucile's  feelings  and  behavior, 
seemed  so  uncalled  for,  that  her  cousin  stood  for  some  mo- 
ments stock-still,  watching  in  silent  amazement,  the  slight, 
erect  form  so  beautifully  silhouetted  against  the  dark,  cluster- 
ing vines.  Her  apparent  dismay  was  attributed  to  her 
childish  timidity;  he  loved  her  more  for  it,  and  stretched  out 
his  hands  towards  her,  saying: 

"Let  us  be  friends,  Lucile!" 

"Have  we  quarreled?"  she  asked,  giving  him  one  of  hers, 
with  evident  reluctance. 

"Not  so  dreadfully  as  to  exclude  a  reconciliation;"  he  re- 
sponded with  great  warmth.  "You  must  remember,  that  in 
less  than  three  days  we  must  part,  dear  Lucile." 

"Please  call  me  Cousin  Lucile." 

"Oh  don't  ask  me  that!"  he  answered  in  a  tone  of  sub- 
dued tenderness.  '■'■LvciJe  is  very  much  sweeter  without  that 
incumbrance." 

"Zulma  has  forgotten  to  bring  in  the  lights,"  Lucile  re- 
marked, taking  up  her  basket.  She  went  in,  lit  the  caudles 
and  placed  them  on  the  piano;  then,  timidly  invited  her  cousin 
to  come  in. 


THE   COUSINS.  233 

"Not  now,  thank  you,  Cousin  Lucile;"'  he  answered,  in  a 
somewhat  pathetic  tone  of  voice.  "I  shall  sit  here  in  the  twi- 
light; it  is  very  congenial  to  my  present  state  of  mind." 

Lucile  feared  she  had  wounded  his  feelings,  and  addressed 
him  in  a  kinder  tone: 

"Come  out  of  the  night  air,  Cousin  Eugene,  and  help  me 
sing." 

She  lingered  in  the  doorway,  waiting  for  him. 

'  'You  treat  me  like  the  Sea  Islanders  do  their  song  birds, 
Cousin  Lucile;  they  put  out  their  eyes  that  they  may  smg  the 
sweeter  m  utter  darkness  and  distress." 

"I  see  no  analogy  between  your  case  and  theirs ;"  answered 
Lucile,  wonderingly. 

"Why  you  stab  me  through  the  heart,  and  then  deliber- 
ately call  me  up  to  sing." 

"My  dear  cousin!"  cried  Lucile  with  genuine  compunction 
in  her  voice.  "How  unkind  ot  you  to  compare  me  with  those 
barbarians!  Why,  I  would  not  hurt  a  fly — much  less  yoxi^ 
whom  I  dearly  love." 

She  returned  to  the  piano,  opened  it,  and  began  playing 
"■Reveil  des  Uiseaux."  The  brilliant  music  filled  the  room  and 
floated  out  in  the  open  air.  Eugene  Lafitte  listened,  while  he 
watched  a  star  which  hovered  on  the  verge  of  the  southern 
horizon.  It  vanished,  at  last,  like  a  great  diamond  dropped 
into  a  velvet  casket.  The  showering  music  caught  up  a  sigh 
which  fell  from  his  tremulous  lips,  and  tenderly  laid  it  in  the 
bosom  of  Night. 


234  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

JUST    FOR    FUN. 

A  FTER  many  a  detour  through  a  variety  of  soil  and  scenery, 
^•^  bayou  Fordorche  terminates  its  wanderings  and  joins 
Grosse  Tete  at  a  short  distance  above  Livonia.  At  this  period 
of  the  war,  the  banks  at  the  junction  were  considerably  higher 
than  the  surrounding  country,  and  commanded  an  admirable 
view  of  bayou  Grosse  Tete,  and  the  public  road  winding  along 
its  shores.  The  school  house,  once  the  residence  of  a  wealthy 
planter,  occupied  the  site  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Fordorche, 
It  was  one  of  the  old  creole  houses  freshened  up  with  paint, 
modernized,  and  supplemented  by  Venetian  blinds.  The  deep 
galleries  which  encompassed  it,  gave  it  an  airy,  home-like  ap- 
pearance, and  efficiently  warded  off  the  summer  heat.  It  was 
surrounded  by  extensive  grounds,  beautified  by  flower-beds 
and  groves  of  stately  trees.  In  early  spring,  the  richly  varia- 
gated  flowers  of  the  catalpa  carpeted  the  sward,  and  their 
broad,  velvety  leaves  over-shadowed  the  galleries  and  made 
moari  throughout  the  summer  time.  On  warm  evenings  the 
boarders  brought  out  their  books  and  charts  and  prepared  their 
lessons  in  the  shaded  avenues,  or  played  quiet  games  until  the 
tea  bell  summoned  them  to  the  most  delightful  repast  of 
the  day. 

There   was  no   lixed   curriculum  of  studies  in  the  school; 
and  the  advanced  pupils  were  allowed  to  pursue  the  branches 


JUST    FOR    PUN.  235 

:most  suited  to  their  abilities  or  natural  inclinations.  The  dis- 
^cipline  was  mild,  permitting  the  freedom  of  social  intercourse 
I  between  the  pupils  and  their  friends.  After  the  dismissal  of 
(the  evening  classes,  the  young  ladies  often  received  calls, 
[paid  visits,  and  on  rare  occasions  attended  the  little  receptions 
I  held  in  the  neighborhood. 

On  the  Wednesday  following  her  last  visit  to  Lucile, 
JNannie  sat  at  one  of  the  windows  of  her  room,  tustling  with 
;the  promiscous  examples  in  Proportion.  After  figuring  and 
itoiling  over  her  sums  with  very  doubtful  results,  she  threw 
saside  her  book  and  slate,  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  flung  her 
sarms  wearily  across  the  back  of  the  chair.  Her  eyes  wandered 
I  listlessly  across  the  wa}^  to  a  point  where  a  sweeping  view  of 
tthe  waters  of  Grosse  Tete  reflected  the  last  ruddy  glow  of  the 
^^setting  sun.  The  trees,  the  tawny  banks  and  rail  fences,  were 
dall  vividly  mirrored  on  its  tranquil  surface.  The  scene  was  as 
[beautiful  and  placid  as  a  picture  on  canvas.  But  Nannie  was 
tno  artist,  and  the  charming  landscape  gave  her  no  pleasure; 
Iher  thoughts  were  busy  with  matters  of  personal  interest. 
JShe  was  thinking  of  Herbert's  loyalty  to  Lucile  and  his  pro- 
woking  indifference  towards  other  girls. 

"Lucile  ought  to  be  teased  for  monopolizing  the  finest 
llooking  fellow  around,"  she  soliloquized;  "and  Herbert,  he 
(deserves  to  be  punished  for  his  conceit.  Thinks  nobody  but 
I  Lucile  worthy  of  his  thoughts.  Dear  me!  it  wouldn't  take  me 
tfive  minutes  to  smash  up  this  little  love  aft'air  of  theirs;  and 
ll've  a  notion  of  doing  it,  just  for  fun!  It  won't  hurt  Lucile 
imuch;  slie'll  fall  bacs  on  cha'  cousin  of  hers.      She's  half  way 

in  love  with   him  now,  for  shes  given  up  her  school  on  his  ac- 
<  count,  and  that  means  a  good  deal  for  a  girl  like  Lucile.     Of 

course,  I'll  do  it,  if  only  I  hrve  a  chance;  lovers'  quarrels  are 
•  so  interesting!  "     Nannie's  monologue  came  to  a  sudden  term- 


236  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

ination;  she  bolted  from  a  chair  and  riveted  her  eyes  on  a  dis- 
tant curve  in  the  bayou.  She  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
reflection  of  a  rider  galloping  in  lithe  bounds  in  the  direction 
of  the  school-house.  Several  times  the  graceful  image  was 
intercepted  by  clumps  of  trees,  but  it  again  reappeared,  glid- 
ing on  the  smooth  saphirine  surface  ot  the  water.  At  length 
the  horseman  emerged  into  full  view  on  the  public  road. 
Nannie  bounded  down  the  steps.  She  got  to  the  gate  just  as 
Herbert  Davis  reached  it. 

"Hold  on!  Herbert,"  she  cried,  waving  her  hand.  "I've 
got  a  commission  for  ,you." 

"From  the  department?"  he  asked,  lifting  his  hat  to 
her. 

"You  presumptions  boy,  you!  I  should  like  to  know 
what  you  did  to  deserve  one  of  that  sort?  " 

"How  IS  everybody?"  Herbert  asked,  searching  with 
eager  eyes  the  grounds  and  galleries. 

"  If  by  '"^'prytorfy' you  mean  Luoile,"  answered  Nannie, 
"you'll  have  to  stop  at  her  house  to  ascertain;  she's  not 
here." 

"  Not  here?  "  echoed  Herbert  with  surprise.  "  What  has 
happened?     Is  she  sick?" 

"  I  reckon  not,"  said  Nannie,  trying  to  pulverize  with  her 
heel,  a  minature  heap  of  dried  leaves.  "  She's  at  home,  enter- 
taining that  handsome  cousin  of  hers." 

"  None  of  your  nonsense,  Nannie!  Tell  me  what  is  the 
matter  witli  Lucile.      Its  late  and  I'm  in  a  hurry  to  get  home." 

"  Why,  Herbert!  you  don't  tell  me  you  haven't  heard 
about  this  Texan  staying  at  Highland?" 

•'Of  course  not,"  answered  Herbert,  in  a  strained,  uneasy 
tone  of  voice.  "  I  haven't  seen  anyone  from  home  for  nearly 
a  month,     What  about  him?" 


JUST    FOR   I'UN.  237 

"Well,"  began  Nannie,  inclining  ber  head  to  one  side  in 
ihe  most  fascinating  manner.  "All  I  know  about  him  is  this: 
<ie's  the  son  of  one  of  Mrs.  Hunt's  uncles,  who  lives  in  Texas 
—got  wounded;  came  to  be  nursed;  made  a  big  impression  on 
wery  member  of  the  family,  especially  on  Lucile,  who  is  per- 
fectly infatuated  with  him.  She  and  Mr.  Lafitte  are  having  a 
ovely  time  of  it,  you  bet." 

' '  The  deuce  they  are !  And  what  do  you  call  a  lovely 
ime,  Nannie?" 

"Why,  flirting  and  carrying  on  generally,"  answered 
Nannie,  with  a*  fluttering  heart.  That's  what  young  people 
generally  do  when  they  get  together.  When  I  was  there,  one 
afternoon,  they  were  sitting  out  on  the  gallery,  enjoying 
themselves.  They  reminded  me  of  two  pigeons,  they  were  so 
sweet  and  afl'ectionate  towards  each  other!  " 

"Confound  it! "  exclaimed  Herbert,  with  cheeks  aflame. 
I  don't  believe  a  word  of  all  this,  Nannie.  I  know  you're 
mean  enough  to  make  up  that  tale  just  to  tease  me! " 

' '  I  declare !  you  are  very  easily  teased  then.  Where's 
the  harm?"  But  fearing  that  she  had  gone  too  far,  she  step- 
.ped  in  front  of  Herbert's  horse,  which  she  clutched  by  the 
iforelock,  saying,  "  Looky  here,  Herbert,  you're  not  going  to 
I  begrudge  poor  Lucile  the  little  innocent  fun  she's  having, 
are  you?" 

He  gave  her  a  look  which  sent  the  blood  bounding  to  her 
[heart.  "Was  this  the  commission  you  had  for  me?"  he 
asked,  almost  transfixing  her  with  an  angry  glance  of  his 
dark  eyes. 

"No,      I  promised  one  of  my  friends  to  lend  her  my 
<Bulah,'  and  I  want  you  to  fetch  it;  it's  at  your  house." 

Poor  Herbert  was  too  proud  to  allow  Nannie  to  see  to 
1  what  extent  her  frivolous  words  had  affected    him.      He  could 


238  ZULMA,   A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

not  trust  himself  another  moment,  nor  master  the  emotions 
which  swept  like  fiery  waves  across  his  heart.  Silently  and 
resolutely  he  extricated  the  girls  fingers  from  his  horse's 
mane  and  started  off;   his  only  refuge  was  in  flight. 

Nannie  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road  watching  him  until 
he  disappeared  from  view.  "Gracious!  "  she  exclaimed,  "I'm 
real  sorry  I've  done  the  thing.  He's  going  to  pitch  into  Lucile 
and  give  her  fits;  and  she  mightn't  have  been  flirting  after  all! 
I  wonder  how  it  will  all  end?  " 

Herbert  rode  several  miles  at  a  furious  rate,  then  sud- 
denly stopped  and  brought  his  steed  to  a  slow  walk.  The 
purple  twilight  gathered  around  him,  and  the  night  wind 
sprang  up  and  tossed  a  bevy  of  seared  leaves  across  the  road. 
They  whirled  about  his  horse's  hoofs  with  sounds  which  grated 
upon  his  ears  and  unnerved  him.  He  determined  to  see  Lucile 
immediately,  in  order  to  take  leave  of  her.  She  had  permit- 
ted the  stranger  to  make  love  to  her — she,  who  had  given  him 
her  promise  to  keep  her  heart's  affections  inviolate  until  he 
claimed  them  as  a  reward  for  his  unalterable  devotion  and 
loyalty.  She  was  now  unworthy  of  such  love  as  he  had  given 
her;  he  would  tear  her  image  from  his  heart,  and  steel  himself 
against  her  alluring  voice  and  winning  ways.  His  outraged 
affections,  his  wounded  pride,  and  his  disappointment,  filled 
his  soul  with  bitter  strife  and  anger.  It  was  a  relief  for  him 
to  know  that  he  would  soon  leave  the  parish  for  the  heat  and 
burden  of  actual  warfare.  He  now  longed  to  lay  down  his 
life  for  the  dear  Southern  (^ause.  Once  his  ambition  was  to 
win  honors  to  lay  at  Lucile's  feet.  Heaven!  what  changes 
will  overtake  a  man  in  an  hour's  time!  Such  were  the  reflect- 
ions which  crossed  and  recrossed  Herbert's  mind  as  he  jour- 
neyed onward  in  the  waning  light.  He  got  to  Highland  at 
dusk.     As  he  approached  the  house,  he  noticed  that  the  can- 


JUST    FORLFUN.  239 

dies  were  burning  m  the  parlor.  No  one  seemed  to  hear  his 
footfalls  upon  the  gravel.  The  parlor  doors  stood  wide  open, 
I  the  light  from  within  streamed  across  the  gallery  to  where  the 
house  plants  seemed  crystalized  in  its  unnatural  glare.  Even 
in  his  anger  and  wretchedness,  Herbert  remembered  his  man- 
ners; he  stood  discreetly  aside  and  rapped.  "Come  in,"  an- 
swered a  voice  which  sent  a  thrill  through  his  soul. 

With  head  proudly  erect,  and  flushed  cheeks,  Herbert 
stepped  into  the  apartment.  Lucile  sat  at  a  table  writing;  at 
the  sight  of  her   visitor;  she  quickly  arose  to  greet  him. 

"Oh!  is  it  you,  Herbert?"  she  cried,  almost  joyfully. 
"I  took  you  for  the  messenger  we  had  sent  out  to  False 
River."  She  looked  so  exquisitely  fair  and  dainty ;  there  was 
such  a  glad,  innocent  expression  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  that  for 
a  second,  Herbert  stood  mute  and  spell-bound  in  the  presence 
of  the  girl  he  had  come  to  upbraid. 

When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  hoarse  and  unnatural. 
' '  There  was  a  time  when  you  never  mistook  my  footsteps  for 
another's;"  he  answered  almost  fiercely. 

Lucile,  who  had  started  across  the  room  to  meet  her 
friend,  involuntarily  staggered  back  towards  the  table.  There 
was  something  in  Herbert's  voice  and  manners,  which  fright- 
ened and  repulsed  her. 

"  What  has  happened,  Herbert?"  she  cried  with  dismay. 
"Tell  me  quickly." 

Herbert's  face  was  now  white  and  drawn;  his  fine  eyes 
flashed  ominously.  Wild  and  reckless  thoughts  drifted  across 
his  heated  brain.  Had  Lucile  been  less  beautiful,  his  loss  would 
have  been  more  endurable.  It  was  terribly  hard  to  pronounce 
his  own  sentence,  and  by  his  own  act  to  alienate  himself  for- 
ever from  the  lovely  being  upon  whom  rested  his  life's  happi- 
ness.     He  had  observed,  that  whenever  she  addressed  him,  it 


240  ZULMA,   A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

was  in  a  low,  cautious  toue,  as  though  she  feared  to  be  over- 
heard. Undoubtedly  she  was  trying  to  prevent  her  lover  from 
discovering  that  he  had  a  rival  in  the  house.  The  thought 
maddened  him.  He  made  a  few  steps  toward  Lucile,  his 
heart  bursting  with  rage  and  jealousy.  "I  have  come  for  the 
express  purpose  of  giving  you  back  3'oar  troth,  Lucile, "  lie  be- 
gan. "You  are  sufficiently  acquainted  with  my  character  to 
know,  that  I  would  scoru  to  keep  it  an  hour  longer  than  I 
could  help,  after  what  has  happened  between  you  and  that 
soit  dis(nit  cousin  of  yours." 

"I  do  not  understand  your  meaning,  Herbert,''  said 
Lucile,  in  a  dazed  helpless  way.  Give  me  an  explanation  of 
this  extraordinary  behavior  of  yours — and — and — please  do 
not  speak  so  loud,  Herbert"  she  begged  in  a  subdued,  pathetic 
tone  of  voice. 

The  blood  of  indignation  once  more  usurped  the  deathly 
pallor  of  his  cheeks;  he  folded  his  arms  composedly  across  his 
breast  and  looked  defiantly  into  Lucile's  misty  eyes. 

"There  was  a  time,"  he  went  on,  "when,  in  my  blind 
worship  of  you,  I  invested  you  with  virtues  and  qualities  sel- 
dom found  on  earth.  To  me,  you  were  as  guileless  as  a  child; 
deceit  in  any  form  was  as  foreign  to  your  nature  as  to  an  angel 
in  Heaven.  Oh,  God!  how  I  have  been  punished  for  having 
thus  made  you  my  idol,  my  divinity!  " 

"It  was  wrong  of  you,  Herbert,"  cried  Lucile,  sinking 
into  a  chair  near  by.  "  I  am  but  human,  and  have  my  faults 
like  other  people!  "  And  she  buried  in  her  hands  her  white, 
suffering  face. 

"To  my  sorrow,  I  have  found  this  out,  Lucile!  "  contin- 
ued Herbert,  in  a  bitter,  sarcastic  tone.  "  You  are  no  better 
than  other  girls ;  the  instinct  of  coquetry  is  as  natural  to  you 
as  to  the  rest;  and  you   succumbed   as  readily  to  temptation, 


JUST    FOR    FUN.  241 

when  the  opportunity  presented  itself.  My  love  for  you  once 
filled  my  heart  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others,  it  has  all  turned 
to  ashes;  you  are  at  this  moment  less  to  me  than  any  other 
human  being,  and  I  no  longer  care  for  your  love  or  esteem. 
In  a  few  days  I  shall  leave  the  parish  to  join  another  com-  - 
mand.  Would  to  Grod  I  could  lay  down  my  life  on  some  dis- 
tant battle  field.  You  have  so  ruined,  so  imbittered  my  ex- 
istence, that  I  no  longer  care  for  earthly  ties.  I  only  wish  I 
could  obliterate  the  past  from  my  memory,  and  that  my  heart 
could  be  turned  to  stone !     I  wish  I  were  dead !  " 

As  he  uttered  the  last  words,  the  unhappy  youth  clasped 
his  hand  across  his  burning  eyes  and  leaned  against  the  wall 
for  support;  Lucile  watched  him  with  cheeks  that  .paled  and 
flushed  alternately.  Had  Herbert  plunged  his  sword  into  her 
heart,  he  could  not  have  wounded  her  as  deeply  and  cruelly  as 
he  had  done  by  his  passionate,  unjust  and  humiliating  re- 
proaches. At  first  she  was  at  loss  to  understand  the  cause  of 
his  angry  tirade.  It  dawned  upon  her  by  degrees,  that  Her- 
bert was  accusing  her  of  some  grave  and  unpardonable  misde- 
meanor, the  nature  of  which  she  was  entirely  ignorant.  He 
ended  by  informing  her  that  she  had  lost  his  love  and  esteem. 
Could  he  have  said  anything  more  crushingly  mortifying? 
Her  pride  and  self-respect  promptly  asserted  themselves,  and 
she  immediately  recovered  her  presence  of  mind.  Her  grace- 
ful head  went  up,  almost  haughtily,  and  the  latent  fire  in  her 
violet  eyes  flashed  out  across  the  room,  to  where  Herbert  stood 
in  an  attitude  of  pitiable  dejection.  "  I  have  listened,  very 
patiently, "  she  remarked,  in  a  calm,  dispassionate  tone,  "to 
your  unjust  and  shocking  insinuations;  but  I  shall  not  attempt 
to  exculpate  myself,  Herbert;  I  haven't  the  least  desire  to 
reinstate  myself  in  your  good  opinion." 


I 


242  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF   THE   OLD    SOUTH. 

"The- attempt  would  be  useless  and  vain,  unhappily  for 
us  both;"  he  answered,  lifting  up  his  head  and  gazing  sorrow- 
fully into  Lucile's  eyes,  ' '  There  is  no  palliation  for  the  harm 
done." 

Her  lips  contracted  with  ill-repressed  pain.  "T  pity  3"ou 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,"  Lucile  said,  in  a  low,  intense 
voice.  ' '  Some  day  you  will  weep  tears  of  blood  for  the  in- 
justice you  have  done  me."' 

' '  If  the  Lucile  I  once  knew  and  loved  could  be  restored 
to  me,  I  should  be  willing  to  weep  those  tears!"  he  responded 
in  despairing  accents!  Then  casting  upon  Lucile  an  appeal- 
ing look,  he  asked:      "  Have  j^ou  nothing  more  to  say  to  me?" 

"  Nothing  more. " 

' '  Then,  farewell !  I  shall  never  again  cross  your  path  in 
life,  Lucile.     Farewell!" 


love's  warfare.  243 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
love's  warfare. 

T  UCILE  made  a  superhuman  effort  to  stifle  the  sob  which 
^  rose  to  her  throat  and  threatened  to  suffocate  her.  She 
overcame  her  weakness,  however,  and  gave  no  further  sign  of 
the  awful  struggle  within  her.  She  sat  silent  and  motionless 
until  Herbert  had  passed  out  ot  her  sight.  Then  her  head 
fell  inertly  against  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  a  smothered 
moan  escaped  her  quivering  mouth.  All  the  woes  of  life 
seemed  crowding  into  her  bursting  heart.  Surely,  God  had 
overrated  her  strength,  for  the  -cross  was  heavier  than  she 
could  bear.  She  remembered  now,  that  in  one  of  her  daily 
oraisons  she  had  asked  for  crosses.  In  her  childish  faith 
and  simplicity,  shehad  invariably  stipulated  that  they  might 
be  of  any  nature,  save  the  death  of  her  dear  parents.  God 
had  taken  her  at  her  word  and  He  had  not  spared  her,  for  the 
burden  he  had  laid  upon  her  shoulder  had  prostrated  her 
to  the  earth,  and  she  made  no  effort  to  fortify  herself  against 
the  unexpected  trial. 

The  silvery  tones  of  the  supper  bell  broke  upon  Lucile's 
melancholy  reflections,  but  she  made  no  attempt  to  answer  its 
summons.  She  felt  like  one  stunned,  incapable  of  resuming 
her  duties,  however  urgent. 

"Ain't  you  comin'  in  to  supper?"  Zulma  asked,  walking 
up  to  where  Lucile  sat.      "Master  done  troo  weighin"  cotton 


244  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

and  is  waitin'  for  you  in  de  dinin'  room.  Lawd  a  mercy!" 
the  girl  ejaculated,  on  observing  the  change  in  Lucile's  face. 
"I  do  believe  you've  been  stealin'  a  nap,  Miss  Lucile,  yo'  eyes 
done  swell  up  like  as  if  you'd  been  sleepin'  for  a  whole  year. 
It's  time  yo' maw  gets  over  dat  spell  ot  hern;  stayin' up  of 
nights  don't  agree  wid  you — it  certainly  don't." 

"Ask  Papa  to  excuse  me,  Zulma;  I'm  not  at  all  well,  and 
don't  care  for  supper, "  Lucile  said,  with  tears  in  her  voice. 
"I  must  attend  to  Mamma;  I  have  already  been  away  too 
long." 

She  gathered  up  her  writing  materials  as  she  spoke,  and 
placed  them  in  her  secretary;  then  passed  her  hand  over  her 
face  as  if  to  compose  and  efface  from  her  features  such  traces 
of  emotion  as  might  betray  her  sufl'ering  to  her  mother. 

"Is  my  sweet  Mamma  awake?"  asked  Lucile,  bending 
over  and  imprinting  a  fervent  kiss  upon  her  mother's  lips. 

"I  have  been  for  sometime,  darling;  I  did  not  call  you, 
because  I  heard  you  entertaining  a  caller.      Who  was  it  dear?  " 

"Herbert  stopped  here  a  little  while.  Mamma." 

Mrs.  Hunt  did  not  notice  the  little  hands  pressing  tight 
against  the  throbbing  heart;  nor  could  she,  in  the  uncertain 
light,  perceive  the  pallor  which  suddenly  overspread  the 
countenance  of  her  daughter. 

"That  must  have  been  an  agreeable  surprise  to  you;" 
remarked  Mrs.  Hunt,  carressing  the  head  which  had  fallen 
upon  the  pillow  close  to  hers. 

"Yes,  Mamma,  I  was  not  expecting  to  see  Herbert 
to-day." 

Lucile  felt  her  strength  slowly  ebbing  away.  0  God! 
must  she  have  recourse  to  prevarication,  in  order  to  hide  Her- 
bert's outrageous  behavior  towards  her,  and  to  avoid  confess- 
ing their  painful  and  humiliating  estrangement. 


love's  warfare.  245 

"Mamma,"  sbe  began,  with  a  sob  in  her  voice,  "  Herbert 
told  me,  that — he  is  going  away — very  soon — to  join  another 
command.  We  shall  never  meet  again.  Oh,  Mamma!  '  And 
her  pent  up  feelings  broke  from  her,  like  a  mountam  torrent 
just  loosened  from  the  icy  grip  of  a  northern  winter. 

"What  a  foolish,  unpatriotic  little  sweetheart  Herbert 
has!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hunt,  drawing  Lucile  to  her  bosom. 
' '  Why,  Lucile  you  are  not  at  all  like  those  Spartan  women 
you  used  to  admire  so  much.  Could  you  not  pluck  up  cour- 
age, dry  your  tears,  and  bid  yOur  lover  'God  speed?'  Herbert 
is  so  young,  so  full  of  chivalric  notions  and  so  ambitious  of 
winning  fame;  you  should  be  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
put  a  damper  on  his  ardor  and  enthusiasm.  And  Lucile,  my 
darling,  I  hope  you  will  never  let  him  see  that  you  are  fretting 
and  that  bis  departure  is  so  afflicting  to  you. " 

"Oh,  Mamma!"  cried  Lucile,  drying  up  her  tears.  "Have 
you  no  better  opinion  of  me?  These  are  the  first  tears  I  have 
shed  on  Herbert's  account,  and  he  shall  never  know  that  I  miss 
him,  or  even  regret  him!  " 

"You  are  running  in  the  opposite  extreme,"  said  her 
mother,  smiling.  "Of  course,  you  will  miss  Herbert;  it  will 
be  but  natural,  if  j'ou  have  any  love  for  him.  Now,  my  pre- 
cious daughter,  jump  down,  bathe  3^our  eyes  and  hand  me  the 
powders." 

This  was  the  third  day  of  Mrs,  Hunt's  illness.  She  had 
fallen  sick  very  suddenly,  on  Monday  morning,  just  as  Lucile 
was  about  starting  for  school.  The  anxieties  of  her  devoted 
husband  and  daughter  knew  no  bounds;  and  they  never,  even 
for  an  hour,  abandoned  her  bedside,  until  after  the  doctor  had 
pronounced  her  out  of  danger.  Half  an  hour  before  Herbert's 
unpropitious  call,  Mrs.  Hunt  had  fallen  into  a  refreshing 
sleep.  In  his  jealousy  and  rage,  he  had  attributed  to  other 
motives,  Lucile's  anxiety  to  suppress  loud  talking. 


246  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD  SOUTH,  , 

Just  about  this  period,  preparations  were  being  made  in 
northwest  Louisiana  to  resist  a  formidable  invasion  projected 
by  Federal  authorities.  General  Green,  after  his  brilliant  ex- 
ploits on  the  Teche  and  on  Red  River,  was  now  making  ready 
to  second  General  Taylor  in  the  approaching  campaign.  When 
these  tidings  reached  Eugene  Latitte,  he  immediately  made  up 
his  mind  to  rejoin  his  command,  notwithstanding  his  disabled 
condition.  No  entreaty  on  the  part  of  his  relatives,  could 
prevail  upon  him  to  remain  another  week.  He  took  his  de- 
parture on  Sunda3^  the  daj'  before  Mrs.  Hunt's  dangerous 
attack.  Thus,  poor  Lucile  had  been  misjudged  by  the  very 
ones  who  should  have  sympathized  with  her  in  her  trials. 

But  to  return  to  Herbert.  He  was,  in  reality,  a  thousand 
times  more  miserable  after  his  interview  with  Lucile,  than  he 
had  been  whilst  he  still  held  his  resentment  locked  up  in  his 
bosom.  He  had  not  gained  anything  by  his  impetuous  con- 
duct. To  his  infinite  sorrow  and  shame,  he  had  acted  rudely 
and  unkindly  to  the  most  refined  and  sensitive  being  on  earth. 
He  understood,  but  too  late,  that  he  had  taken  the  words  of  a 
frivolous  creature,  and  condemned  Lucile  without  a  hearing. 
And  what  right  had  he  to  reprimand  her  for  violating  a  pledge 
he  had  almost  extorted  from  her?  These  and  other  painful 
reflections,  harrassed  and  perplexed  his  mind.  He  was  most 
wretched  and  despicable  in  his  own  estimation.  He  repeat- 
edly passed  his  hand  across  his  throbbing  temples  and  groaned 
aloud.  He  rode  along,  at  a  slow  pace,  in  order  to  give  time 
to  his  feelings  to  subside  before  reaching  his  home.  Several 
times  he  lifted  his  aching  eyes  to  the  glowing  heavens.  Many 
of  the  constellations  he  had  studied  with  Luciles  assistance, 
now  paved  the  sky  with  pulsing  splendor.  There  was  Taurus, 
with  its  jeweled  clusters;  the  gleaming  sword  of  Orion,  his 
starry  belt  and  epaulets,    marked    the  field    where  the  noted 


LOVES  WARFARE.  247 

hunter  forever  defied  his  untiring  adversary;  the  red  planet, 
Mars,  like  a  carbuncle,  blazed  between  the  horns  of  the  bull. 
The  creamy  light  of  Capella,  and  Kigel's  white  lustre  com- 
pleted the  magnificent  cortege  just  risen  above  the  horizon. 
Herbert  never  looked  at  the  stars  without  thinking  of  the  sweet 
face  he  had  so  often  seen  lifted  towards  them  in  admiration 
or  in  earnest  study.  How  often,  when  in  loving  contempla- 
tion of  that  face  he  had  lost  the  drift  of  her  delightful  con- 
ceits, and  got  his  heartstrings  hopelessly  entangled  in  the 
geometrical  figures  she  traced  out  in  order  to  facilitate  his 
progress  in  the  study  of  astronomy.  Those  dear,  golden  days 
had  vanished,  never  to  return!  What  would  this  world  be  to 
him  without  Lucile? — a  desert  waste.  And  yet,  he  must  plod 
through  it  without  hope  or  ambition  of  any  kind.  Only  this 
morning,  his  mind  was  overcrowded  with  glorious  plans  for 
the  future;  his  heart  ached  to  impart  them  to  Lucile.  He 
had  been  overtaken  by  an  overwhelming  misfortune;  he  was 
left  without  a  vestige  ot  hope  to  cheer  him  in  the  hazard- 
ous career  he  had  chosen.  Herbert's  manliness  seemed  to 
have  suddenly,  forsaken  him.  His  head  drooped  upon  his 
breast;  and  the  burning  tears  chased  each  other  down  his  col- 
orless cheeks.  As  fast  as  they  fell,  he  dashed  jthem  off 
quickly  and  impatiently,  like  one  ashamed  of  his  own  weak- 
ness. 

Herbert  found  his  family  assembled  at  the  supper  table. 
He  was  greeted  with  acclatnatious  of  joy  and  surprise.  His 
mother  and  the  younger  members  of  the  household,  crowded 
around  him  and  covered  his  face  with  heart-felt  kisses,  and  his 
father  welcomed  him  with  warmth.  In  the  boisterous  excite- 
ment which  prevailed,  the  family  had  overlooked  the  change 
which  had  been  wrought  in  his  customary  cheerful  and  happy 
disposition.     It  was  only  after  Herbert  had  declined  to  join 


248  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

them  at  their  meal,  that    they  noticed   the   unnatural  pallor  of 
his  face  and  the  dark  rings  which  encircled  his  eyes. 

"My  dear  boy,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Davis,  with  natural 
alarm.      "You  look  awful;  have  you  been  sick?  " 

"No,  mother,  but  I  have  a  very  bad  headache;"  answered 
Herbert,  steadying  his  voice. 

"0  brother!  "  chimed  in  Rosanna,  laying  down  the  plate 
she  had  brought  for  Herbert.  "You  have  been  ill  and  have 
hidden  the  fact  from  us.  Well,  I'm  glad  we  have  you  here; 
we'll  nurse  j'ou  so  well,  and  give  you  such  a  good  time,  you'll 
be  your  old  self  again  in  less  than  a  week." 

"I'm  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind  intentions,  sister,  but 
I  cannot  stay  longer  than  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow!'"  echoed  Mrs.  Davis.  "My  dear,  darling 
boy,  you  must  not  think  of  going  back  so  soon;  you're  not  in 
a  condition  to  expose  yourself  to  the  hardships  of  camp  life." 

"No,  Herbert,"  rejoined  his  father  with  concern,  "you 
had  better  stay  until  you  feel  better.'' 

"But,  Father,"  answered  Herbert,  "I  am  on  furlough, 
and  am  in  honor  bound  to  report  to-morrow  by  sunset.  I  only 
came  to  announce  to  you  my  departure  for  the  Teche  country." 

"Dear  son!"  once  more  exclaimed  Mrs.  Davis.  "What 
in  the  name  of  common  sense,  must  they  send  3'ou  to  that  mis- 
erable out-of-the-way  place  for?  '' 

"Our  company  has  been  ordered  to  join  a  brigade  under 
Taylor's  command.  You  should  not  wish  to  see  me  shirk  my 
duties,  would  you,  mother?"  asked  Herbert,  with  a  tremor  in 
his  voice. 

Mrs.  Davis  had  now  broken  into  a  passionate  fit  of  weep- 
ing. "No,  Herbert,"  she  managed  to  articulate  between  her 
sobs.  "  I  want  you  to  act  like  a  man,  and  a  true  Southerner. 
Do  all  you  can  to  help  our  dear  country ;  but  do  take  care  of 


love's  warfare.  249 

your  precious   life.       If  50U  get  killed,    I  shall  die,    I  know  I 
shall!"' 

"Please  do  not  distress  yourself  so,  dear  mother, "  Her- 
bert said;  "I  promise  you,  without  compromising  my  reputa- 
tion as  a  soldier,  to  take  the  best  care  of  myself." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  replied  his  mother,  somewhat  recon- 
ciled. Do  your  duty,  Herbert,  but  please  don't  rush  into  the 
mouths  of  the  cannons,  like  our  Col.  Allen  did  at  Shiloh." 

"  Even  then,  he  didn't  get  killed,  mother." 

"No,  because  he  was  under  God's  special  protection!  " 
answered  Mrs.  Davis,  with  solemn  fervency.  "  Think  of  his 
noble  conduct  at  the  battle  of  Baton  Rouge;  and  now,  that  he 
has  been  elected  governor,  tiiere's  no  telling  what  he  will  do 
for  our  state. 

At  half  past  ten,  most  of  the  household  had  retired  for 
the  night. 

Mrs.  Davis  had  done  everything  that  a  mother's  devotion 
could  suggest  for  the  comfort  of  a  beloved  son.  The  little 
talk  she  had  had  with  him,  proved  very  unsatisfactory.  Her- 
bert had  always  been  candi  1  and  communicative;  she  was 
grieved  to  find  him  so  reserved  and  unsympathetic.  She 
feared  that  military  life  had  spoiled  his  amiable  character. 

"Herbert,  are  you  asleep?  "  Rosanna's  sweet  voice  asked 
at  his  bed-room  door,  half  an  hour  after  her  mother's  visit, 

"No;  come  in,  sister." 

Ro=?nna  found  her  broker  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
r,'ith  bo  hands  crossed  undc  his  Lead.  He  had  been  watch- 
ing th  re  gh  the  open  winder,  the  swaying  branches  ot  an 
apple  tr-i  3  which  grew  in  th  t  corner  of  the  house.  Some  of 
I  the  smaller  twigs  bad  reachec  Jie  panes,  and  were  now  chaff- 
ing and  tapping  against  them  with  weird,  shivering  sounds, 


250  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOFTPI. 

very  much  in   keeping    with   the    boy's    melancholy    state   of 
mind. 

"I  have  brought  you  an  infallible  cure  for  a  sick  head- 
ache," explained  Rosanna,  placing  on  the  table  a  small  china 
bowl.      "Will  you  try  some  of  it,  Herbert?  " 

"How  kind  of  you,  dear  sister!  of  course  I  will,  after 
you  have  put  3'ourself  to  the  trouble  of  preparing  it." 

Rosanna  poured  some  of  the  contents  of  the  bowl 
into  a  wine-glass  and  handed  it  to  her  patient.  After  replac- 
ing the  glass  on  the  taljle,  she  returned  to  her  brother's  bed- 
side and  began  passing  her  fingers  carressinglv  through  his 
wavy  brown  hair.  For  a  moment  l)otii  were  silent.  Herbert's 
eyes  once  more  wandered  back  to  where  the  bare  limbs  strug- 
gled with  the  north  wind  and  tlirew  themselves  disconsolately 
against  the  weatherboarding. 

At  length  Rosanna  asked:  "  Herbert,  my  dear  brother, 
what  is  the  matter  with  you?  Surely,  it  is  not  a  mere  head- 
ache that  makes  you  so  sad  and  low-spirited!  " 

' '  One  is  not  apt  to  be  gay,  with  a  racking  pain  in  the 
head,  sister,"  observed  Herbert,  with  a  forced  smile, 

"I  imagine  that  you  suffer  mentalhj  more  than  yon  do 
physically,  dear  Herbert.  It  takes  the  eyes  of  a  loving  sister 
to  detect  the  change  in  you.  Could  you  not  trust  me,  brother, 
with  the  secret  of  your  trouble?  " 

Herbert  made  no  answer  to  this  anxious  appeal. 

Rosanna  proceeded :  "Imagine  how  unhappy  I  shall  be 
during  your  long  absence,  if  you  leave  me  in  this  anxious 
state  of  mind." 

"Do  you  ever  feel  cheerful  when  you  are  ill?" 

"You  are  trying  to  put  me  off,"  answered  Rosanna, 
drawing  a  chair  to  the  bed.  ' '  If  you  were  to  confide  in  me, 
I  might  be  of  some  assistance   to  you."     She  sat  beside  him 


love's  warfare.  251 

with  a  determination  of  finding  out  the  cause  of  his  despond- 
ency. After  some  minutes'  roflection,  an  idea  struck  her  and 
she  asked:      "  Have  you  seen  Lucile  lately?  " 

The  question  startled  H^nbert,  but  he  answered  calmly: 
"Saw  her  this  evening." 

"And  how  is  Mrs.  Hunt.'  queried  Rosanna. 
"  I  did  not  see  her." 

"I  -should  think  not,  slie  is  still  too  ill  to  leave  her 
room." 

Herbert  raised  himself  oa  his  elbow  and  stared  at  his 
sister.      "  Has  she  been  sick?'' 

"Why,  Herbert!  ■■  exclaimed  Rosanna,  with  a  surprised 
look.  "I  cannot  believe  that  Lucile  did  not  mention  to  you 
her  mother's  illness." 

Herbert  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  like  one  sud- 
denly overcome  by  some  unexpected  calamity.  He  dearly 
loved  Lucile's  mother.  He  answered  evasively:  "I  was 
there  a  very  short  while;  what  is  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Hunt, 
Rosanna?" 

"She  was  taken  with  something  like  a  congestive  chill 
and  fever;  for  a  time  she  was  alarmingly  ill.  Lucile  sent  for 
me  and  I  helped  nurse  her  mother  until  she  became  convales- 
cent.     I  returned  only  this  morning." 

"Then  you  saw  that— that — relative  of  theirs?  "  Her- 
bert stammered,  at  the  same  time  turning  his  head  to  hide  his 
confusion. 

« '  Mr.  Lafitte  left  the  morning  before  Mrs.  Hunt  fell 
sick,  but  I  had  met  him  before.  He  is  a  very  nice  man,  so 
handsome  and  agreeable,  and  every  inch  a  soldier.  Its  a 
wonder  to  me  that  Lucile  did  not  fall  in  love  with  him,  in 
spite  of  your  fine  eyes  and  boyish  devotion,  brother  mine!  " 


252         ZULMA,  A  STORY  OP  THE  OLD  SOUTH. 

Herbert  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "  Perhaps  she  did,"  he  in- 
timated; casting  on  Rosanna  an  appeahng  look. 

"  The  very  idea!  If  Mr.  Lafitte  ever  attempted  to  make 
love  to  Lucile,  I  know  how  emphatically  she  would  put  a  stop 
to  it.  She's  too  whole-souled  and  conscientious  to  indulge  in 
even  a  mild  flirtation." 

Joy,  like  a  streak  of  sunlight,  flashed  across  Herbert's 
soul;  but  it  was  instantly  dispelled  by  the  recollection  of 
Nannie's  remark:  "I  saw  Lucile  and  her  cousin  sitting  out 
on  the  gallery;  they  reminded  me  of  two  pigeons,  they  were 
80  sweet  and  and  affectionate  towards  each  other." 

A  sharp  twinge  of  jealousy  cut  him  like  a  knife  through 
the  heart,  and  he  spoke  almost  crossly;  "  I  have  no  faith  in 
girls;  they  are  all  alike;  none  of  them  have  the  strength  of 
mind  to  resist  the  pleasure  of  carrying  on  flirtations  when  they 
have  a  chance." 

"Thanks  for  the  compliment;"  answered  Rosanna,  some- 
what nettled;  But  she  obtained  a  clue  to  Herbert's  ill  humor; 
he  was  jealous  of  Lucile's  cousin,  she  felt  relieved  of  very 
serious  apprehensions. 

Rising  from  her  seat,  she  smilingly  remarked:  "To- 
morrow I  hope  to  find  jou  better,  and  more  charitably  dis- 
posed toward  your  friends  and  our  sex  in  general.  '  Then  she 
kissed  him  "good  night,"  saying:  "Dream  sweetly  of  the 
one  you  love,  dear." 

Lucile  was  nurse  and  home-keeper  during  the  rest  of  the 
week.  On  the  Monday  follov/ing,  her  father  took  her  back  to 
school,  where  she  was  joyfully'  welcomed  by  her  teachers  and 
class-mates,  for  she  was  a  favorite  among  them  all.  She  and 
Nannie  Dawsey  roomed  together,  and  occupied  one  of  the 
largest  apartments  on  the  front.  On  the  first  evening  after 
ber  return,  Lucile  retired   to  her  room  to  write  an  essay  which 


LOVE'S   -WARFARE.  253 

had  been  given  out  for  the  morrow's  exercise.  She  had  hardly 
settled  herself  at  the  table  to  beoin  her  work,  when  Nannie 
walked  in  and  threw  herself  upon  the  lounge.  Unfortunately 
for  Lucile,  the  girl  had  come  to  talk,  for,  without  the  least 
encouragement,  she  opened  her  batteries.  Lucde  listened 
very  patiently,  writing  between  fires;  but  it  was  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  ihat  she  collected  her  ideas,  and  scribbled 
them  off  at  favorable  intervals. 

"Did  Herbert  stop  at  your  home,  last  Wednesday, 
Lucile?  "  asked  Nannie  rather  abruptly. 

"Yes, '' was  her  companions  laconic  response,  fler  face 
grew  pale,  and  the  pen  she  held  wavered  across  the  lines. 

"  I  just  knew  he  would!"  exclaimed  Nannie,  sitting  up 
with  renewed  interest.      "  Wasn't  he  piping  mad?  ' 

"  He  was  not  in  a  very  amiable  frame  of  miad, "  affirmed 
Lucile,  with  increasing  embarrassment.      "  Why  do  you  ask?" 

"Out  of  curiosity.  When  he  passed  here,  on  his  way 
home,  I  stopped  him  to  ask  for  a  book,  and  just  for  fun,  I 
told  him  that  you  and  your  cousin  were  head-over-heels  in  love 
with  each  other  and  that  you  were  just  having  a  jolly  time 
of  it." 

Lucile  leaped  from  her  chair;  the  light  from  her  eyes 
blazed  like  two  diamond  points.  "  Nannie! "  she  cried,  in  a 
voice  trembling  with  indignation:  "You  wicked,  meddlesome 
little  wretch  you!  How  dare  you  fabricate  such  an  infam- 
ous lie?  " 

Her  girlish  figure,  graceful  even  in  her  extreme  wrath, 
quivered  with  pain  and  excitement. 

"  My  goodness!  "  replied  Nannie,  somewhat  taken  by  sur- 
prise. "Who  would  have  thought  you  had  such  an  awful 
temper,  Lucile!  One  would  think  I  had  murdered  some- 
body! " 


254  ZULMA,   A    STORY    OV    THE    OLD  SOUTH, 

"You  have  done  worse  than  murder,"'  cried  Lucile,  mak- 
ing a  few  steps  toward  Nannie;  "  3'ou  have  robbed  me  of 
Herbert's  friendship  and  esteem ;  and  3'ou  have  rendered  his 
life  miserable,  in  consequence,  because — because — there  is 
nothing  in  the  world,  so  sad  as  loss  of  confidence  and  blighted 
faith!" 

"Hold  on,"  interrupted  Nannie,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand, 
"if  that's  all  the  harm  done  I  can  easil}' settle  the  matter 
again.  I'll  write  to  Herbert  to-morrow  and  explain  the 
joke." 

"'The  joke!'  0  God!  "  cried  Lucile,  falling  l)ack  into 
her  chair  and  clasping  her  hands  over  her  face.  ' '  The  harm 
you  have  done  can  never  be  repaired,  I  will  never  forgive 
Herbert  for  giving  you  credit  for  the  tales  you  told  him;  never! 
never/'''  Lucile  bowed  her  head  over  the  table  and  wept  most 
bitterly. 

"There's  no  use  in  carryiag  on  so,  Lucile;"  Nannie  re- 
marked, after  coolly  contemplating  her  friend's  grief  for  sev- 
eral minutes.  "I'll  fix  it  up  with  Herbert.  The  first  thing 
you'll  know,  he'll  be  on  his  knees,  begging  your  pardon.  I 
had  no  idea  you'd  kick  up  such  a  rumpus  about  such  a  little 
thing!  " 

At  Lucile's    earnest    request,  Nannie  finally   relinquished 

the  oflBce  of  pacificator. 

Three  months  later,  Lucile  leceived  from  Herbert  the  fol- 
lowing letter: 

Dear  Lucile — I  have  met  your  cousin.  Lieutenant  La- 
fitte.  I  cannot  at  present  explaia  to  you  the  preliminaries  of 
our  first  interview.  Suffice  it  to  Sixy,  that  I  am  row  fully 
aware,  how  utterly  unworthy  1  lirvVe  rendered  myseh  of  your 
thoughts.  I  am  so  overwhelnu  d  with  the  knowled  ,c  of  the 
wrong  I   have  done  you,  that,  notwithstanding  your  Christian 


loye"s  warefare.  255 

charity,  and  your  angelic  nature,  I  have  despaired  of  ever 
obtaining  your  forgiveness.  Need  I  say,  that  my  outrageous 
and  unpardonable  conduct  towards  you,  was  the  outcome  of 
some  malicious  remarks  made  by  one  whom  we  had  both  be- 
friended? But  I  am  not  trying  to  vindicate  myself,  Lucile. 
I  have  sinned  too  deeply  to  ever  recover  your  friendship^ 
Heaven  alone  knows  how  I  have  suffered,  and  yet  suffer.  My 
miserable  condition  makes  me  reckless.  I  court  death — that 
alone  can  deliver  me  from  my  wretched  lot.  0  Lucile,  I  have 
not  even  the  consolation  of  asking  your  forgiveness!  I  dare 
not.  I  am  weeping  those  "tears  of  blood"  you  predicted  I 
should;  but  they  are  profitless  tears,  they  cannot  purchase 
your  love,  nor,  perhaps,  even  your  forgiA-euess.  And  j^et, 
how  I  crave  for  both,  how  I  pra}'  for  them !  Is  there  nothing 
I  could  do  to  wash  out  this  grievous  offense  of  mine,  Lucile? 
For  Heaven's  sake,  answer  me.  I  cannot  much  longer  endure 
this  terrible  suspense. 

Let  me  know  the  worst,  at  once!  Herbert. 

Lucile  received  this  letter  one  evening  just  before  supper. 
She  read  it  at  her  bed-room  window,  straining  her  eyes  in  the 
faint  light  of  departing  day. 

Happily  for  her,  Nannie  was  absent.  She  closed  her 
doors  and  indulged  in  a  blissful  fit  of  weeping.  At  last,  with- 
out any  concessions  on  her  part,  Herbert  had  discovered  his 
error,  and  she  was  once  more  restored  to  his  good  opinion. 
That  he  still  loved  her,  was  evident  from  the  tenor  of  his  let- 
ter. Love  like  this  could  never  die.  She  pressed  the  letter 
to  her  lips,  and  laid  it  next  to  her  heart,  in  the  place  of  the 
heavj'  weight  it  had  removed. 

When  Lucile  made  her  appearance  at  the  tea  table  that 
evening,  her  teacher  stared  at  her,  saying:      "Why,    Lucile, 


256  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF   THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

how  bright  and  happy  you  look!     You  remind  me  of  your 
old  self." 

"The  roses  deepened  on  lie  girls  cheeks.  "That's  ex- 
actly what  I  am,  dear  Mrs.  Gilbert,"  she  answered  with  a 
beaming  smile. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  week,  Lucile  wrote  an  answer  to 
Herbert's  letter. 

Geosse  Tete,  June,  1864. 

Is  it  Herbert,  my  school-mate,  the  companion  of  my 
childhood;  the  fond,  noble,  tru;  ting  friend  of  my  girlhood, 
who  seeks  my  forgiveness?  or  that  other,  whom  I  can  never 
recall  without  a  cruel  pain  at  t'le  heart.  Alas!  the  Herbert 
that  has  erred  and  suffered,  is  the  one  who  now  ciaims  my 
commiseration,  and  to  him  I  uaist  extend  my  forgiveness. 
"Well,  it  is  given,  freely;  unreservedly  given!  I  only  ask  in 
return,  that  this  same  miiiguidcd  Herbert  will,  in  some  man- 
ner, io  completely  identify  hir.';self  with  the  other  whom  I 
loved  and  trusted,  that  I  shall  v  ne  day  bless  him,  for  wiping 
out  this  one  dark  record  from  i:ae  tablet  of  my  memory.  If 
the  restoration  of  my  friendship  can  lighten  your  heart,  or  the 
hardships  of  your  life,  1  shall  deem  myself  hj-ppy.  Now  that 
we  are  friends  again,  I  shall  love  to  hear  from  you,  whenever 
you  shall  have  an  opportunity  to  write.  Lucile. 


Alexandria,  June  22^  1864. 
Lucile,  My  Dearest  Lucile — How  could  you  have  had 
the  heart  to  write  me  that  letter?  You  forgave  me  as  a  sov- 
ereign pardons  a  criminal!  But  I  forget  myself  m  my  new- 
born joy.  I  crave  for  more  than  I  am  entitled  to,  your  pardon 
— nothing  more!  O,  my  dearest  one.  Will  you  never  forget 
that  wild,  irresponsible  act  of  mine?  Can  you  never  again 
respo:id  to  my  heart's  deathless  lovie?     I  have  never  ceased  to 


lote's  warfare.  257 

care  for  you,  Lucile,  never!  Even  when  my  soul  was  torn 
■with  jealousy  and  disappointment.  1  could  not  tear  from  it 
my  despairing  love  for  3'ou. 

You  said  to  me  once  in  that  terrible  hour,  that  you  had 
no  desire  to  be  restored  to  my  good  opinion.  Can  it  be  possi- 
ble that  yon  still  adhere  to  that  resolution?  Darling,  had  I 
loved  YOU  less,  had  I  not  enshrined  you  in  my  heart  as  the 
hest^  sweetest,  pwj-es^,  and  most  perfect  of  God's  creations,  I 
should  not  have  taken  it  so  hard.  You  know  not  what  I  have 
suffered,  Lucile.  You  know  not  how  dark  and  desolate  the 
world  had  suddenly  grown  to  me,  after  I  thought  I  had  lost 
you.  Death  would  have  been  the  sweetest  boon  Heaven  could 
have  sent  me  then. 

Our  regiment  will  return  to  Pointe  Coupee  in  a  few  weeks. 
I  hope  you  will  allow  me  the  privilege  of  calling  upon  you, 
Lucile;  I  have  something  to  impart  to  you,  which  I  know  will 
give  you  pleasure,  and  which  will  prove  to  you,  how  thorough- 
ly I  am  cured  of  that  mad,  unfounded  jealousy  which  came 
so  near  parting  us.     Au  revoir. 

Yours,  ever  truly  and  lovingly. 

Herbert. 


258  ZULMA,   A    STORY   OP   THE   OLD    SOUTH, 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


ON    PROBATION. 


UNPRECEDENTED  struggles  had  convulsed  Louisiana  since 
the  opening  of  tlie  year  1864.  The  Northwestern  portion 
of  the  State  had  become  the  scene  of  sanguinary  battles,  and 
events  of  vital  interest  to  the  South,  had  been  enacted  upon 
her  soil.  Death,  famine  and  devastation  had  followed  the 
wake  of  the  hostile  armies  which  had  swept,  like  an  avalanche, 
across  the  richest  and  fairest  portion  of  the  country.  It  was 
General  Halleck  who  conceived  the  design  of  invading  Louis- 
iana by  the  line  of  the  Red  river.  In  the  early  part  of  January 
1864,  he  proposed  to  General  Banks,  a  plan  of  operation,  by 
which  he  was  to  cut  off  important  supplies  from  Texas,  and 
capture  Shreveport,  then  the  capital  of  the  Confederate  govern- 
ment in  Louisiana. 

Accordingly,  in  the  month  of  March,  a  strong  land 
force,  under  Banks,  advanced  from  the  valley  of  the  Teche 
towards  Red  river,  where  he  was  to  be  supported  by  a  fleet  of 
gunboats  under  the  command  of  Admiral  Porter.  General 
Steele  marching  from  Little  Rock  was  to  co-operate  with  these 
united  forces  at  Shreveport.  Taylor,  who  had  the  immediate  di- 
rection of  the  troops  in  Louisiana,  contrived,  with  his  little 
army  of  ten  thousand  men,  to  keep  this  formidable  host  in 
check  until  reinforcements  reached  him.  The  first  important 
engagement  took  place  near  Mansfield.      Taylor  and  his  gallant 


ON   PROBATION.  '  2S9 

Louisianans,  assisted  by  several  regiments  of  fearless  Texans, 
won  the  day  and  covered  themselves  with  deathless  glory. 
The  nest  encounter  was  at  Plaisant  Hill,  where  General  Green 
and  his  dauntless  Texas  cavalry,  distinguished  themselves  for 
their  brilliant  exploits.  The  day  after  the  battle,  he  was  sent 
with  a  detachment  in  pursuit  of  the  fugitives,  and  was  killed 
by  a  blow  from  a  fragment  of  a  shell.  Lieutenant  Lafitte  had 
followed  his  bold  leader,  and  was  severely  wounded  whilst 
valiantly  rallying  his  squad  near  Blair's  landing.  Herbert 
Davis,  who  had  joined  the  pursuit,  received  several  painful 
flesh  wounds.  After  the  fray,  he  and  Eugene  Lafitte  found 
themselves  under  the  same  roof  of  an  improvised  field  hospital. 
While  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  the  surgeon,  Herbert  caught 
sight  of  his  quondam  rival  lying  on  a  pile  of  hay,  bleeding 
popiously  from  a  wound  in  his  thigh.  Though  this  man  had 
been  the  indirect  cause  of  his  outbreak  with  Lucile,  Herbert 
was  too  sympathetic  and  noble-minded  to  encourage  unkind 
feelings  towards  his  suffering  comrade  in  the  hour  of  peril. 
Walking  up  to  where  the  officer  was,  he  stooped  over  his  pros- 
trate form  and  asked:  "Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Lieuten- 
tenant  Lafitte?" 

The  soldier's  bronzed  face  flushed  with  surprise  and  emo- 
tion. 

"I  do  not  think  it  possible  lor  you  to  render  me  anj'  as- 
sistance," he  answered,  "unless  you  can  find  some  way  of 
staunching  this  blood.  It  looks  as  though  I  shall  bleed  to 
death  before  I  can  be  attended  to." 

Herbert  made  a  tour  of  inspection  through  the  deserted 
building,  and  found  to  his  relief,  the  remnant  of  a  table  cloth 
in  an  old  cypress  armoir.  This  he  quickly  made  into  a  com- 
press. He  then  expertly  bandaged  the  leg,  unmindful  of  the 
pain  he   himself  suffered  from  a  gaping  wound  on  his  arm. 


260  ZULMA,    A  STORY   OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

An  hour  later,  the  surgeon  complimented  Herbert  on  his  dex- 
terity and  timely  succor.  From  that  day,  a  close  friendship 
united  the  worthy  5'ouths.  They  remained  together  several 
"Weeks  after  the  dispersion  of  the  troops  that  had  done  such 
valiant  service  in  behalf  of  the  Pelican  State.  The  men  whom 
General  Taylor  had  so  thoroughly  inspired  with  his  own  fiery 
zeal,  now  refused  to  follow  Kirby  Smith  across  the  Texan  lines. 
After  Taylor's  return  to  Natchitoches,  they  became  demoralized 
and  were  disbanded.  Many  of  the  regiments  rejomed  their 
former  commands.  As  the  wound  in  his  thigh  incapacitated 
young  Lafitte  from  further  service,  Herbert  Davis  prevailed 
on  him  to  return  with  him  to  Poiute  Coupee,  to  remain  as  his 
father's  guest  until  he  was  once  more  qualified  for  military  du- 
ties. 

On  a  bright  morning  in  the  flowery  month  of  June,  Mrs, 
Gilbert,  the  minister's  wife,  sat  in  the  parlor  of  the  Fordorche 
home,  giving  a  music  lesson.  The  sound  of  jingling  spurs  ar- 
rested her  attention,  then  some  one  walked  rapidly  up  the 
steps.  She  went  to  the  door  to  ascertain  who  the  caller  was, 
and  came  face  to  face  with  Herbert  Davis.  He  had  always 
been  a  favorite  of  hers.  His  uniform  courtesy,  gentlemanly 
deportment  and  assidious  application  to  his  studies,  had  won 
her  interest  and  esteem;  his  gallant  conduct  in  the  late  cam- 
paign, had  served  to  increase  her  admiration.  The  meeting 
between  the  two  was,  therefore,  cordial  and  afl'ectionate.  Af- 
ter a  brief  and  earnest  conversation  and  mutual  inquiries  of 
personal  interest,  Herbert  respectfully  drew  the  lady  out  of 
the  hearing  of  the  pupil,  who,  according  to  orders,  was  run- 
ning her  scales  from  the  majors  to  the  minors,  but  with  such 
reckless  velocity  that  her  teacher  turned  several  times  to  repri- 
mand her.  -'Dear  Mrs.  Gilbert'  he  said,  "I  have  a  favor  to 
ask  of  you." 


ON    PROBATION.  261 

"Granted;"'    thoughtlessly    answered     his    old     teacher. 
"Who  could  deny  you  anything,  Herbert — and  at  such  a  time?" 

Herbert  gave  her  a  look  full  of  gratitude.  '  'Have  you  any 
objections  to  my  seeing  Lucile  for  a  few  minutes?" 

"None  whatever.  You  have  not  outgrown  the  old  attach- 
ment, I  perceive;"  the  lady  smilingly  observed. 

"Indeed  no;  and  you  are  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 
discountenance  my  allegiance,  I  am  sure." 

Mrs.  Gilbert  gave  Herbert  an  approving  glance,  and  drew 
out  her  watch.  "Will  you  have  the  patience  to  wait  ten 
minutes?"  she  asked. 

"After  a  separation  of  six  months,  I  should  be  equal  to 
the  ordeal;"  answered  Herbert,  with  cheerful  alacrity. 

"Very  well.  I  shall  send  3-ou  Lucile  as  soon  as  I  get 
through  with  this  lesson.  Here's  a  seat;  you  will  enjoy  the 
balmy  air,  and  the  merry  warble  of  that  mocking-bird  in  the 
catalpa. " 

"Thanks.  What  a  lovely  view  you  have  here!  There  is 
no  finer  country  in  the  world,  than  Grosse  Tete,  Mrs.  Gilbert;" 
exclaimed  Herbert,  with  a  glad  light  in  his  eyes. 

The  lady  laughed:  "I  can  well  appreciate  your  feelings, 
dear  Herbert.  The  most  attractive  place  on  earth  to  any  one 
in  love,  is  where  the  heart  finds  its  magnet."' 

As  the  minutes  sped,  Herbert's  heart  began  to  beat  so  vio- 
lently, that  his  lips  vibrated  with  the  force  of  its  pulsations. 
Lucile,  to  his  sorrow  and  disappointment,  received  him  with 
less  warmth  than  he  anticipated;  indeed,  she  was  mclined  to 
treat  him  with  dignified  reserve.  "Dear  Lucile,"  Herbert 
cried,  impulsively  seizing  her  hands.  "I  see  you  are  still 
angry  with  me.  I  never  thought  you  could  be  so  henvtless. 
0!  my  dearest  one,  will  you  never  forgive  me — will  you  never 
love  me  again?"  he  asked,  with  a  note  of  entreaty  in  his  voice. 


262  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Lucile  silently  struggled  to  free  her  hands  from  his  cling- 
ing clasp. 

"Herbert,  you  hurt  me!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  tremu- 
lous with  emotion.  '  'Release  my  hands,  you  know  full  well, 
you  have  not  the  right  to  treat  me  thus,  it  is  ungenerous  on 
your  part." 

Herbert  instantly  released  the  little  hands:  "Very  well. 
I  shall  not  again  run  the  risk  of  incurring  your  displeasure, 
Lucile." 

He  had  grown  ver}^  pale  with  suppressed  pain  and  mortili- 
cation.  TInconsciously,  he  threw  himself  in  the  same  attitude 
he  had  assumed  a  half  a  year  ago,  whilst  upbraiding  her.  Then, 
the  intellectual  beauty  of  his  face  was  marred  by  passion  and 
his  soul  writhed  in  despair.  But  now,  the  developed  faculties 
of  his  heart  and  mind,  asserted  themselves,  and  he  was  taller, 
manlier,  handsomer  than  before.  The  Confederate  uniform 
he  wore,  displayed  to  advantage  his  graceful,  well-propor- 
tioned figure,  and  lent  him  a  distinguished  appearance.  For  a 
moment  he  held  her  eyes  enthralled  by  a  magnetic  glance  of 
his  own;  they  pierced  her  soul  with  the  truth  and  smcerity  of 
his  abiding  love. 

"Lucile,"  he  asked,  "is  this  to  be  the  end  of  our  friend- 
ship, and  of  the  engagement  which  existed  before  that  one 
o-rievous  act  of  mine  alienated  us?  I  have  the  privilege  of  as- 
certaining 3^our  intentions  and  views  in  regard  to  onr  former  re- 
lation to  each  other.  You  must  now  let  me  know,  positively, 
whether  you  still  consider  me  your  betrothed  lover.  Be  not 
over-hasty;  remember,  dearest  one,  that  your  love  is  more 
precious  to  me  than  life." 

A  gleam  of  rosy  light  broke  upon  Lucile's  perfect  face; 
almost  involuntarily  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  but  she  could 


ON    PROBATION,  263 

not  hide  the  truth  from  her  lover,  he  read  it  in  their  liquid 
depths. 

"You  do  care  for  me,  Lucile, "  he  cried,  once  more  grasp- 
ing her  hands  and  covering  them  with  kisses.  "What  pleas- 
ure can  you  derive  in  thus  torturing  my  poor  heart?" 

"Had  I  ever  said  an  unkind  word  to  you  before  you  mis- 
trusted me,  Herbert?"  Lucile  asked,  gently  disengagmg  her 
hands;  "3-ou  must  now  suffer  the  consequences  of  yo\xv  loss  of 
confidence  in  me."' 

"I  shall  prove  to  you,  my  unshaken  faith  in  j-ou,  Lucile. 
I  have  persuaded  Lieutenant  Lafitte  to  remain  with  me  as  my 
guest  until  he  is  able  to  return  to  his  regiment." 

"Does  he  still  suffer  from  the  wound  in  his  arm?"  asked 
Lucile,  looking  frankly  and  unperturbably  into  Herbert's  face. 

"No,  he  was  severely  hurt  in  a  fight  at  Blair's  Landing. 
Now,  Lucile,  it  will  be  but  natural  for  him  to  spend  much  of 
his  time  at  your  house;  he  will  be  constantly  thrown  with  you. 
I  shall  not  be  jealous  of  him,  if  you  give  me  one  more  trial ; 
renew  the  promise  3'ou  gave  me,  just  before  I  started  for  the 
arm}'." 

Lucile  broke  out  in  a  prettj',  rippling  laugh. 

"I  shall  do  no  such  a  thing,  Herbert;  you  have  shouldered 
the  responsibility,  you  must  now  take  the  risks."' 

Herbert  bit  his  lips  with  vexation,  a  misgiving,  subtile  as 
air,  clouded  for  a  memenft  his  anxious  countenance. 

"Then,  I  have  made  a  fool  of  myself!" 

"Not  quite,  Herbert;"  said  Lucile,  with  a  charming  smile. 
"You  have  only  prolonged  your  probation." 


264  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF   THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

lawler's  invasion. 

T^HE  Federals  had  recently  established  a  military  post  at 
*  Morganza,  and  General  Lawler,  with  a  considerable 
army,  had  taken  up  his  headquarters  in  that  vicinity.  Conse- 
quently, Grosse  Tete  and  the  adjacent  country  became  the 
scene  of  frequent  conflicts  between  the  Yankee  troops  and  the 
Confederate  soldiers  occupying  that  part  of  the  parish.  Oft 
times  our  boys  ventured  out  to  a  close  proximity  to  the  Federal 
encampment,  "just  for  the  fun  of  popping  at  the  cen tries." 

Then  again,  they  met  m  sharp  skirmishes,  resulting  in 
serious  losses  on  both  sides.  The  dash  and  daring  of 
these  reiterated  attacks  on  the  p.art  of  the  Rebels,  became 
monotonous  and  wearisome  to  the  good-natured,  pusil- 
lanimous commander  at  Morganza,  his  Irish  blood  was 
up  and  he  would  no  longer  brook  their  insolence  and 
perverseness.  He  had  several  times  threatened  to  put  a  stop 
to  the  reckless  audacity  of  these  free  lances,  by  making  a 
sortie  and  scourging  Ihem  entirely  out  of  the  country.  About 
a  week  after  the  return  of  our  troops  from  Red  River,  some 
one  started  the  report  that  Lawler  had  definitely  decided  en  a 
little  expedition  down  Fordorche.  Had  the  genera)  notified  our 
boys  that  he  had  granted  them  an  amnesty,  and  was  coming 
to  give  them  a  picnic,  the  tidings  would  havie  been  less  elating. 


lawler's  invasion.  265 

They  immediately  besjan  preparing  for  his  reception.  Officers 

mustered    into    service  all  the   scattered  companies  hovering 

around,  and    as    many    recruits   as  were  willing   to  join    the 
ranks. 

On  a  sunny  morning  in  June,  the  dauntless  little  band 
gathered  at  the  mouth  of  Fordoche,  impatiently  awaiting  for 
the  signal  to  start.  Four  of  the  pupils  of  the  neighboring 
school  exchanged  their  school-bags  for  muskets;  they  were 
mere  lads,  between  the  ages  of  fourteen  and  sixteen.  Willie 
Gresham,  Conne's  brother,  was  the  oldest  of  the  absconding 
quartette.  He  was  noted  for  being  the  handsomest  youth  in 
the  countr}-.  His  fair  and  delicate  complexion,  his  coral  lips 
and  soft,  dark  eyes,  had  already  wrought  sad  havoc  in  the 
hearts  of  the  grown  girls. 

Willie  was  a  born  aristocrat ;  was  always  arrayed  in  broad- 
cloth and  immaculate  linen,  and  sported  a  two  hundred-dollar 
jeweled  watch.  These  worldly  advantages,  however,  never 
detracted  from  his  popularity.  His  facile,  attractive  nature 
won  him  many  friends.  It  was  a  wonder  to  everyone  that 
adulation  had  not  spoilt  his  character;  he  was  uniformly  kind 
and  amiable  towards  all  his  school-mates  and  they  all  loved 
him  dearly  for  his  artless,  careless  patronage .  Notwithstanding 
the  effeminacy  of  his  manners  and  delicate  constitution,  Willie 
Gresham  was  the  moving  spirit  of  a  little  war  council  held  on 
this  eventful  morning,  in  the  extreme  corner  of  the  school- 
house  yard.  He  was  the  chief  speaker,  and  the  one  who  ex- 
pounded certain  views  regarding  the  duties  and  responsibili- 
ties of  every  Southern  man  or  boy  capable  of  bearing  arms. 
The  result  of  this  patriotic  effusion  was  the  surreptitious  dis- 
appearance of  the  school's  most  promising  lads.  They  were 
heartily  welcomed  in  the  ranks,  and  concealed  until  the  troops 
were  ready  to  depart.     This  little  transaction  tooJi  place  about 


266  ZULMA,   A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

half  an  hour  before  the  bell  rang  for  morning  classes.  The 
pupils  were  then  assembled  about  the  yard,  watching  the 
soldiers  as  they  passed  and  repassed  in  their  hurried  prepara- 
tions for  an  early  start.  Every  one  was  on  the  alct;  a  spirit 
of  restlessness  had  seized  aud  demoralized  the  whole  school. 
The  younger  boys  stood. on  the  road  and  greeted  with  vocifer- 
ous cheers,  each  Confederate  squad  riding  by.  Whenever  a 
civilian  came  in  sight,  his  ears  were  instantly  assailed  by  a 
loud  chorus  of  voices  singing  a  paraphrase  on  "I  Leave  My 
Home  and  Thee,  Dear." 

'•Why  don't  yuu  go  to  the  war,  dear? 
Why  don't  you  tight  for  me? 
Why  don't  you  drive  the  Yankees 
From  out  of  Pointe  Coupee? 

The  girls  sat  under  the  spreading  trees,  or  promenaded  ou 
the  gallery,  waiting  for  the  departure  of  the  valiant  little  band 
rapidly  gathering  under  the  folds  of  their  "  Bonnie  Blue  Flag," 
fluttering  in  the  cheerful  morning  light.  When  the  last  rider 
had  disappeared  from  view,  and  the  inspiring  strains  of  "  Dix- 
ie" had  floated  off  across  the  neighboring  fields,  Mr.  Gilbert 
summoned  his  reluctant  pupils  to  the  school  house.  But  he 
found  it  almost  impossible  to  control  them;  they  were  restless 
and  averse  to  study.  The  morning  exercises  were  so  often  in- 
terrupted, and  proved  so  unsatisfactory,  that  the  teachers  con- 
cluded to  dismiss  the  school  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  in 
order  to  give  time  to  the  day  scholars  to  reach  their  homes  be- 
fore the  culmination  of  that  day's  event. 

As  the  laggard  hours  dragged  apace,  a  prescience  of  com- 
ing evil  overshadowed  the  minds  of  the  inmates  of  the  school, 
aad  filled  them  with  vague  apprehensions  for  those  who  had  so 
unnecessaril}'  exposed  their  lives  on  that  hazardous  adventure. 
Pay  was  declining  and  the  sun  was  moving  rapidly  towards 
a  couch  of  dijjphauous   clouds   prepared   for  him  on  the  verge 


I 


lawler's  invasion.  267 

of  the  western    horizon.  His  golden  beams  showered  down 

upon  tree  tops,  grassy  banks  and  flowery  fields.  The  twitter- 
ing of  young  swallows  among  the  shrubbery  and  the  diowsy 
hum  of  belated  bees  alone  broke  the  silence — a  silence  which 
hung  like  a  tangible  weight  upon  the  senses,  and  oppressed  the 
heart  with  painful  forebodings. 

The  boarders  had  spent  an  idle  evening.  Several  of  them 
had  taken  their  seats  upon  the  side  gallery,  where  the}'  had 
an  uninterrupted  view  of  the  Fordoche  road.  With  straining 
eyes  and  deep  solicitude,  they  watched  for  the  returning  braves. 
After  many  hours  of  anxious  waiting  the  cries  of;  "Here  they 
are!  They  are  coming!  They  are  coming!"  broke  simultaneously 
from  their  lips. 

In  fact  the  road  along  Bayou  Fordoche,  was  flecked  with  ri- 
ders in  grey.  Helter  skelter  they  came,  clattering  by  in  a  pro- 
miscous  stampede. 

"What's  got  into  them?'"  asked  one  of  the  girls. 

"The  Yankees  are  after  them;"  seutentiously  answered 
Nannie  Dawsey. 

A  vehicle  was  now  plain!}'  discernable  in  the  melee;  then 
another  emerged  in  view;  both  slowly  wended  their  way 
amongst  the  galloping  horses. 

"They  are  bringing  home  their  disabled  men,"  observed 
Mrs.  Gilbert. 

"Look!'"  cried  one  of  the  boarders.  "That  fellow  over 
there  has  his  head  bandaged,  I  can  see  the  red  stains  on  the 
cloth,  and  there's  another  all  splashed  with  blood." 

Some  of  the  men  continued  down  the  road,  others  halted 
at  the  mouth  of  the  bayou. 

"I've  a  great  notion  to  run  out  and  ask  them  the  news;" 
said  Nannie,  starting  off.     One  of  her  companions  caught  her 


2*^8  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

by  the  arm.  "For  shame,  Naanie.  Don't  you  see  Mr.  Gil- 
bert out  there?  he'll    give  us  the  necessary  information." 

"They've  got  Herbert  in  there  I'm  sure;"  exclaimed  Nan- 
nie, when  one  of  the  vehicles  slowly  passed  the  house;  "for 
I  saw  him  pass  liere  this  morning  in  one  of  the  squads." 

All  eyes  turned  toward  Liicile.  Though  the  color  had 
fled  from  her  cheeks,  she  gave  no  utterance  to  the  dreadful 
suspicion  clutching  at  her  heart. 

"Oh,  goodness!  cried  one  of  the  girls.  Mr.  Gilbert  is 
bringing  us  bad  news.  Look  at  his  face,  it  is  almost  livid." 
As  soon  as  the  minister  set  foot  on  the  gallery,  the  group 
closed  around  him  with  eager  questions.  The  tidings  he 
brought,  were  truly  disheartening.  As  w-as  expected,  our 
over-confident  soldiers  had  had  an  encnuiter  with  a  greatly 
superior  force,  and  after  a  gallant,  though  unavailing  resist- 
ance, had  been  totally  defeated. 

"Our  poor  Willie  Greshain  was  shot  through  the  lung  and 
was  brought  home  in  a  dying  condition,"  said  Mr.  Gilbert. 
Here  he  paused  and  glanced  at  Lucile,  who  was  staring  at 
him  with  a  wild  haunted  look  in  her  eyes.  "We  have  been 
very  unfortunate,"  he  continued,  turning  to  his  wife.  "Her- 
bert Davis  also,  received  a  dangerous  wound  in  his  chest."- 

"In  the  chest?"  exclaimed  Nannie.     "Then  he's  gone  up!" 

Many  of  the  girls  drew  out  their  handkerchiefs  and  began 
crying.  A  breathless  sob  rose  to  Lucile's  white  lips,  and  she 
stretched  out  her  hand  towards  a  chair  like  one  suddenly 
stricken  with  blindness.  At  the  sight  of  her  distress,  Mrs. 
Gilbert  passed  an  arm  around  the  shuddering  form  and  drew  it 
affectionately  to  her  bosom. 

"One  of  the  officers,"  continued  Mr.  Gilbert,  >'ju8t  now 
told  me  that  a  large  body  of  Federals  is  on  the  way  to  Grosse 
Teto.    It  is  probable  they  will  reach  this  point  before  nightfall. 


lawler's  invasion.  269 

A  flutter  of  excitement  disturbed  the  little  group  congre- 
gated around  their  teachers. 

"There  is  no  cause  for  alarm,  young  ladies,"  pursued  Mr. 
Gilbert,  in  a  reassuring  voice.  "The  Yankees  will  not  disturb 
us,  for  they  have  made  up  their  minds  to  chase  our  soldiers 
out  of  the  parish,  and  will  not  stop  to  fi;ive  us  a  moment's 
thought;  besides  we  shall  put  our  trust  in  God.  'Whosoever 
dwelleth  under  the  defense  of  the  Most- High  shall  abide  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Almighty, '  "  concluded  the  reverend  gentle- 
man with  much  fervor. 

"Suppose  they  stop  here,  what  are  we  to  do?"  asked  one 
of  the  pupils  in  a  tearful  voice. 

'  'Lock  yourselves  up  in  your  rooms  and  make  the  best  of 
your  situation.  Mrs.  Gilbert  will  give  us  supper  as  soon  as 
convenient  so  that  you  may  not  go  to  bed  hungry.  After  sup- 
per, we  shall  have  prayers.  I  perceive  you  are  in  no  condition 
for  mental  exertion,  we  shall,  therefore,  dispense  with  our 
usual  preparations  for  the  morrow's  lessons." 

Half  an  hour  later,  whilst  the  household  were  hastily  par- 
taking of  the  evening  meal,  their  attention  was  arrested  by  the 
beat  of  hoofs  on  the  front  alley ;  then  the  silence  was  broken 
by  the  call. 

"Hello  there!  Hello!"  Mr.  Gilbert  went  to  the  door; 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  rider  plainly  outlined  against  the 
twilight;  the  man  reeled  in  his  seat  like  one  either  badly 
wounded  or  intoxicated.  He  drew  reins  at  the  corner  of  the 
steps. 

"What  is  your  business?"  demanded  Mr.  Gilbert,  in  a 
rather  uncompromising  tone  of  voice.  "Come  up  close,  I 
want  to  speak  to  you  on  very  important  business,"  answered 
the  intruder.  With  evident  reluctance,  Mr.  Gilbert  walked  to 
the  edge  of  the  gallery  saying,  "Well  what   do   you    want   of 


270  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

me?"     A  click,  a  flash,  and  the  Yankee's  revolver  was  leveled 
at  the  clergyman's  breast. 

"Your  life,  sir;  or  your  money!"  came  the  answer  in  a 
low,  tense  voice. 

Naturally,  Mr.  Gilbert  was  staggered  by  the  unexpected 
assault.  He  grew  ghastly  pale  and  held  his  breath,  like  one 
in  fearful  suspense. 

"1  have  no  mone}',  sir;"  he  said  in  a  trembling  voice. 
"I  am  only  a  poor  clergyman,  teaching  for  living." 

"None  of  that  nonsense,"  replied  the  robber,  with  a  fear- 
ful oath.  "It's  one  or  the  other,  and  I'll  not  give  you  anoth- 
er minute  for  reflection;  choose!" 

He  enunciated  the  last  word  with  an  ominous  contrac- 
tion of  his  shaggy  eye-brows  and  brought  his  formidable  look- 
ing weapon  in  closer  contact  with  the  heavnig  breast.  At 
this  juncture,  Mrs.  Gdbert  rushed  to  her  husband's  rescue. 
"For  God's  sake  spare  my  husband;  "  she  cried.  "I  will  give 
you  all  you  ask."  "All  right;  "  answered  the  man,  with  a 
sardonic  grin.  "Hand  over  all  your  cash,  or — here  another 
terible  oath  burst  from  his  lips,  "I'll  bore  him  through.  Now, 
hustle.      I  give  you  three  minutes,  and  no  more. 

It  took  the  frightened  woman  less  than  that  to  run  to  the 
amoir  and  back  again  with  a  roll  of  greenbacks  which  she 
tremblingly  thrust  into  the  highwayman's  hands.  He  seized 
the  booty  without  examination,  and  wheeled  his  horse  around 
with  nervous  expedition.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  he  had 
passed  the  gate,  and  was  on  his  way  up  the  road,  followed  by 
several  others  who  were,  no  doubt,  his  accomplices  in  crime. 
The  scurry  of  their  horses'  hoofs,  had  scarcely  died  awa}', 
when  the  billowy  noise  of  tramping  cavalry  smote  the  ear. 

"Good  heavens!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Gilbert.  "The  Feder- 
als are  upon  us!  Retire  to  your  rooms  young  ladies,  and  lock 
your  doors." 


lawler's  invasion.  271 

Though  trembling  with  terror  and  excitement,  the  girls 
still  lingered  on  the  gallery,  peering  through  the  obscurity,  at 
the  dark,  cumbrous  mass  moving  along  on  the  opposite  shore. 
The  clatter  of  horses'  feet,  the  clinking  and  gingle  of  sabres 
and  rumbling  of  wagons,  produced  an  appalling  sound.  Then, 
regiment  after  regiment  of  cavalry  thundered  across  the  little 
bridge,  at  the  mouth  of  Fordoche.  It  required  considerable 
time  for  a  arm}'  of  four  thousand  men  to  get  across.  By 
eight  o'clock  that  night,  the  premises  were  alive  with  hungry, 
restless  men,  running  from  place  to  place,  tearing  down  fences 
and  wood-piles  to  light  their  camp-fires.  There  was  not  a 
nook  in  the  j-ard  and  garden  that  was  not  in  possession  of  the 
enemy.  The  banks  of  the  bayous,  the  roads  and  surrounding 
fields,  were  all  illuminated  with  their  direful  beacons.  The 
crash  of  falling  fences,  the  death-squawk  of  fowls,  surprised 
in  peaceful  slumber,  the  neighing  and  tramping  of  horses,  and 
the  sound  of  a  thousand  muftled  voices,  filled  the  air  with  a 
dull  roar  and  a  din  that  couflicted  strangely   with  each   other. 

General  Lawler  and  his  staff  came  up  to  the  house,  and 
signified  his  intention  of  making  it  his  headquarters  for  the 
night.  As  he  could  not  be  accommodated  with  necessary  apart- 
ments, he  and  his  officers  made  up  their  minds  to  sleep  on 
their  blankets  out  on  the  gallery.  The  General  then  ordered 
Mrs.  Grilbert  to  prepare  supper  for  himself  and  staff,  after 
which  he  lighted  his  cigar,  and  settled  down  in  pleasant  antic- 
ipations of  a  sumptuous  meal  and  uninterrupted  repose. 

The  girls  had  taken  refuge  in  Lucile's  room;  the  doors 
and  blinds  had  been  securely  fastened,  but  they  stood  behind 
them,  and  peeped  through  the  turned  shutters,  at  the  busy 
scene  outside.  Some  of  the  timid  boarders  began  crying  and 
lamenting,  others  giggled  and  pretended  to  be  highly  enter- 
tained.     Poor  Lucile  had   thrown  herself  upon   the  bed  and 


272  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

buried  her  face  in  a  pillow.  The  noise,  confusion  and  excite- 
ment prevailing  around  her,  produced  no  effect  on  her  senses. 
They  were  as  completely  closed  against  her  surroundings,  as 
though  she  belonged  to  another  sphere.  Without  effort  on 
her  part,  her  mind  called  up  and  realized  the  heart-rending 
scene  transpiring  at  Herbert's  home.  In  imagination,  she  wit- 
nessed the  despair  and  voiceless  anguish  of  the  stricken  family, 
on  the  arrival  of  that  beloved  son  and  brother,  so  sadly  smit- 
ten in  the  dawn  of  his  promising  career.  But  what  was  their 
anguish  to  hers? 

None  of  them  had  ever  wounded  his  sensitive  feelings, 
or  caused  him  to  shed  a  tear,  whilst  she,  in  her  stubborn  pride, 
had  humiliated  him  beyond  measure,  and  had  filled  his  poor 
heart  with  grief  and  discouragement.  She  would  now  gladly 
forfeit  ten  years  of  her  life  for  a  sight  of  his  dear  face,  and 
the  assurance  of  his  forgiveness.  She  accused  herself  of  being 
the  most  heartless  creature  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  prom- 
ised Grod  that  if  He  spared  Herbert's  life,  she  would,  never 
again,  in  word  or  deed,  inflict  suffering  upon  an}^  one.  "Dear, 
dear  Herbert;"  she  muttered  to  herself.  "If  you  knew  how  I 
love  you,  if  3'ou  knew  how  deeply  I  repent  of  mj'  harshness  to- 
wards you,  you  would  not  die,  I  am  sure  you  would  not! 
My  poor  heart  is  tortured  with  remorse,  but  I  cannot  go  to  you, 
Herbert;  something  stronger  than  this  army  around  me,  holds 
me  back.  Call  me,  dear  One!  call  me,  that  I  may  go  to  you 
before  you  die.  My  noble,  generous,  beautiful  Herbert,  do 
not  leave  me  thus;  have  pity  on  my  suffering!  ' 

Such  were  the  grievous  and  silent  prayers  and  appeals 
which  rose  from  Lucile's  bleeding  heart  and  died  upon  her 
lips.  Her  condition  rendered  her  oblivious  of  even  the  pres- 
ence of  her  companions,  who  had  gotten  over  their  fright,  and 
were  now  laughing  and  struggling  for  the  best  post  of  obser- 


lawler's  invasion.  273 

vation.  Thinking  that  Lucile  had  cried  herself  to  sleep,  they 
ceased  to  worry  her  with  their  officious,  though  well-meant  at- 
tentions, and  confined  themselves  to  the  novel  proceedings 
viewed  through  the  slats  of  the  doors  and  windows.  At  a 
bout  ten  o'clock  that  evening,  Lucile  was  aroused  from  her  sad 
meditations  by  Nannie's  shrill  voice  calling:  Lucile!  Lucile! 
wake  up  quick!  here's  your  Pa,  big  as  life,  walking  straight 
for   the    steps!  " 

*In  a  thrice,  Lucile  bounded  off  the  bed,  and  rushed  to 
the  door  which  she  wrenched  open.  She  ran  through  the  par- 
lor and  reached  the  gallery,  just  as  her  father  stepped  upon  it. 
With  a  smothered  cry,  she  flung  her  arms,  protectingly  around 
her  father's  neck. 

"Halt!  halt! — treachery!  "  The  words  rang  from  the  lips 
of  half  a  dozen  men,  who  sprang  from  their  seats  and  covered 
Mr.  Hunt  with  drawn  swords  and  revolvers. 

"What  does  this  signify?"  demanded  General  Lawler, 
staring  about  him  with  a  look  of  surprise  and  consternation. 
"Speak  sir." 

For  answer  Mr.  Hunt  glanced  down  on  the  white-robed 
figure  clinging  convulsively  to  his  bosom.  Lucile  withdrew 
her  eyes  from  her  father's  pale  face,  and  cast  a  hasty,  terrified 
look  at  the  glittering  muzzles  leveled  at  his  heart.  She 
tightened  her  arms  around  him,  and  wailed:  "Papa!  0  Papa!" 
There  was  an  undescribable  pathos  in  the  low,  sweet  voice, 
which  thrilled  the  hearts  of  her  hearers  and  disarmed  them  of 
suspicion.  As  the  actual  condition  of  things  dawned  upon 
their  bewildered  minds,  the  panic-stricken  officers  lowered  their 
weapons,  and  the  color  slowly  flowed  back  to  their  blanched 
cheeks. 

*  A  true  incident. 


274  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"How  did  you  manage  to  pass  our  pickets?'  sternly  asked 
the  general. 

"I  had  no  encounter  with  your  pickets,  sir.'" 

"Ah!     Where  do  you  hve?" 

"About  eight  miles  from  here.' 

The  general  scowled.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
passed  our  lines  and  marched  up  to  my  headquarters  without 
interference?"  asked  he  with  an  incredulous  look. 

Mr.  Hunt  appreciated  the  officer's  dismay,  and  answered 
with  a  smile:  "I  travelled  on  the  other  side  of  the  bayou  and 
crossed  it  in  a  skiff,  opposite  the  house.  Your  guards  must 
have  been  asleep;  none  of  them  attempted  to  stop  me,  as  you 
perceive. " 

"We  shall  postpone  the  examination  of  this  case  till  to- 
morrow," said  Lawler  after  a  moments  reflection.  "In  the 
meantime,  sir,  consider  yourself  our  prisoner. " 

Mr,  Hunt  bowed  in  acquiescence,  then  led  Lucile  into  the 
house  without  the  least  opposition,  on  the  part  of  his  detainer. 
Mrs.  Gilbert  who  had  witnessed  the  whole  performance  from 
the  dining-room,  declared  that  she  had  never  seen  as  tragic 
and  beautiful  a  tableau  as  the  one  presented  on  this  occasion. 
The  space  on  the  gallery  in  front  of  the  door,  was  sufficiently 
lighted  up  by  the  parlor  lamps,  to  bring  in  relief,  the  ex- 
pression, dress,  accouterments  of  each  individual  figuring  in  the 
scene.  No  performance  on  the  stage,  coukl  have  produced 
the  dramatic  effect  that  this  unconscious  and  spontaneous 
acting  did,  upon  the  few  astonished  spectators. 

As  soon  as  the  general  and  his  staff  had  adjourned  to  the 
dining-room  for  supper,  Mr.  Hunt  prevailed  upon  Mr.  Gilbert 
to  allow  the  girls  to  go  out  on  the  galleries  to  look  at  the  camp; 
a  spectacle  they  might  never  witness  again. 


lawler's  invasion.  275 

The  flickering  camp-fires,  still  illuminating  the  grounds, 
presented  the  grandest  and  most  wonderful  sight  they  had 
CA^er  looked  upon.  Some  of  the  restless  torches  leaped  up- 
wards, as  if  to  meet  the  kindred  light  of  the  stars,  and  then, 
like  disappointed  ambition,  suddenly  dropped  among  the  smol- 
dering embers.  Others  burned  with  a  steadier  light,  throwing 
a  rosy  glow  upon  the  forms  moving  within  the  radiance.  The 
bustling  noise  and  confusion  which  deafened  the  air  in  the 
earlier  portion  of  the  evening,  had  nearly  subdued,  and  a  sol- 
emn hush  was  gradually  falling  upon  that  breathing  human 
mass,  slumbering  beneath  the  starry  canopy  of  heaven.  As 
the  little  group  on  the  gallery  contemplated  the  spectacle,  one 
of  their  number  remarked:  'Just  think  of  it,  girls,  one  among 
these,  fired  the  bullet  which  killed  poor  Willie  Glresham." 

Lucile   started,    and   shielded   her  face  with  her  hands. 
Her  father  silently  drew  her  back  into  the  parlor. 

The  boarders  were  then  sent  to  bed.  They  had  been  so 
exhausted  by  that  day's  fatigue  and  excitement,  that  they 
slept  profoundly  until  sunrise,  when  the  bugle  for  receille, 
pierced  the  air  with  its  clear  ringing  notes,  and  aroused  them 
from  their  slumbers.  Once  again  the  fires  were  kindled,  and 
the  noise  and  bustle  and  tumult,  agitated  the  camp.  Mr. 
Hunt  was  not  permitted  to  leave  the  premises  until  after  the 
departure  of  the  troops,  which  took  place  immediately  after 
breakfast.  The  girls  were  given  the  privilege  of  standing  on 
the  galleries  to  watch  the  regiments,  as  one  by  one,  they  un- 
furled their  spangled  banners  and  marched  off,  accompanied 
by  the  swell  of  martial  music.  Then,  Lucile,  with  a  cry  of  an- 
guish, threw  herself  into  her  father's  arms.  "Take  me  home, 
papa,'"  she  begged,  I  cannot  bear  it  another  minute!  Some, 
thing  dreadful  has  happened;  I  know  it!     I  feel  it! 

Mr.  Hunt  borrowed  the  minister's  horse  and  buggy,  and 
started  off  without  further  delay. 


276  ZULMA,   A    STORY   OF   THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


E 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

FAITHFUL    UNTIL    DEATH. 
"When  sorrows  come,  they  come  not  as  single  spies,  but  in  battalions." 

UGENE  LAFITTE  bad  been  staying  with  Herbert  since 
his  return  to  Pointe  Coupee.  Two  days  previous  to  that 
unfortunate  Fordoche  expedition,  he  had  come  on  a  special 
visit  to  his  cousins  at  "Highland."  The  news  of  the  Confed- 
erates' defeat  and  its  results,  reached  the  family  about  a  hah' 
an  hour  before  Herbert  and  his  escort  passed  the  house.  Mr. 
Lafitte  and  Mr.  Hunt  accompanied  the  party  home,  in  order  to 
lend  assistance  in  this  deplorable  emergency.  Before  starting, 
however,  Mr.  Hunt  took  the  initiative  in  dispatching  several 
messengers  for  medical  aid.  When  the  doctor  arrived,  he 
found  Herbert  in  a  critical  condition.  The  ball  had  penetrated 
the  right  lung  just  above  the  abdomen;  he  had  already  lost  a 
considerable  amount  of  blood  and  suffered  acutely  during  the 
paroxysms  of  coughing.  The  physician  deemed  it  prudent  to 
await  the  arrival  of  the  surgeon  before  attempting  to  extricate 
the  ball.  The  latter  had  been  called  for  Willie  Gresham,  but 
his  services  were  no  longer  needed,  as  the  youth  had  died  from 
hemorrhage  soon  after  his  removal  from  the  conveyance. 

In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Hunt's  anxieties  for  Lucile  became 
unendurable,  and  he  represented  to  his  friends  the  necessity  of 
going  for  her  before  the  arrival  of  the  invading  troops.  He 
took  the  precaution  of  crossing  the  bayou  in  order  to  avoid  the 
Yankee  pickets,  in  case  the}'  had  already  been  stationed  along 


FAITHFUL    UNTIL    DEATH.  277 

the  road.  We  have  already  seen  the  result  of  his  rash  under- 
taking. Mr.  Hunt  had  left  his  wife  in  charge  of  two  trusty 
servants — Zulma  and  Plaisance.  He  took  his  departure  with- 
out the  least  misgiving,  for  he  had  not  the  remotest  idea  that 
the  Federals  would  venture  as  far  as  his  neighborhood  that 
night.  But  he  was  sadly  mistaken  in  his  calculations,  for  he 
had  not  been  absent  an  hour,  when  the  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs 
was  heard  clamorously  crossing  the  bridge  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill. 

Zulma,  who  was  out  in  the  parterre  watching  for  the 
return  of  the  messenger  that  had  been  sent  to  Mr.  Davis',  ran 
to  her  mistress  with  unusual  trepidation  in  her  manners. 

"Mistis, "  she  cried,  "sho'  as  you  born,  dem's  Yankees 
gallopin'  up  de  road!" 

"Oh  no,  Zulma,'"  answered  Mrs.  Hunt  in  a  reassuring 
tone  of  voice.  "Those  are  some  of  our  men.  returning  from 
Fordoche." 

"Listen!"  once  more  cried  the  girl,  with  a  frightened  ex- 
pression in  her  black  eyes.  "Dey  dun  turn  de  road;  no  Con- 
federites  would  come  tearing  so  at  dis  time  of  de  night. 
Come  in,  please,  mistis,  come  in!" 

As  the  riders  drew  near,  Zulma's  agitation  augmented,  and 
she  once  more  appealed  to  Mrs.  Hunt:  "Mistis,  go  to  your 
room  and  lock  yo'self  up.  I  kin  manage  dem  fellers  better 
den  you.  You  know  I  ain't  skeered  of  nobody. "  Seeing  that 
her  mistress  was  not  disposed  to  obey  her,  Zulina  became  des- 
perate: "Fur  God  sake,  mistis,"  she  pleaded,  "do  as  I  tell 
you.  You  ain't  got  no  men  folks  tur  hinder  dem  tellers  frum 
'busin'  and  cusiu'  you.  Marster  dun  lef  you  in  my  hands  an' 
you  got  ter  do  as  I  tell  you;  fur  dis  once,  please,  mistis.  I 
ain't  a  bit  skeered  of  dem  men.  I'll  straighten  'em  up.  mighty 
quick,  if  you  leave  'em  ter  me.     Now,  do,  mistis  I" 


278  ZULMA,     A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Whilst  thus  pleading  and   expostulating,  Zulma   impelled 
.her  reluctant  mistress  towards  her  own  room,  and  firml}"  push 
ed  her  in,  saj'ing:      "Aunt  Plaise,   you   stay   in  dere  wid  her. 
Lock  de  door  inside,  and  don't  let  her  open  it  'till  I  tell  you." 

Zulma  then  rushed  to  the  frontdoors  and  began  fastening 
them.  She  had  scarcely  closed  the  last,  when  several  Yankees 
rode  up  and  began  shouting.  The  girl  kept  quiet  for  several 
minutes,  but  the  men  grew  so  boisterous  and  violent  that  she 
thought  it  prudent  to  conciliate  them  by  civil  treatment.  She 
ran  to  Mrs.  Hunt's  room,  and  said  in  cautious  tones:  "I'se 
gwine  ter  let  'em  in,  mistis.  Dey'll  bust  open  de  door  and  cum 
in  any  way,  if  I  don't.  Don't  you  be  skeered.  t'se  gwine  ter 
treat  'em  as  perlite  as  I  kin,  cause  dis  ain't  no  time  ter  fool 
wid  'em;  you  understand,  mistis?" 

"Yes,  Zulma,"  answered  Mrs.  Hunt  in  a  trembling  voice. 
"Let  them  in;  but  'tis  best  fer  me  to  go  out  there  and  receive 
them;  they  will  respect  me  and  abstain  from  violence.  Plais- 
ance,  give  me  that  key. " 

"0  my  goodness!"  cried  Zulma.  "Please  dont  give  it  to 
her  Aunt  Plaisance — t'row  it  out  of  de  window!  Dey's  try- 
in'  to  break  open  dat  door — I'se  gwine." 

<'You  little  hussy!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  soldiers,  flouish- 
ing  his  sword  over  Zulma's  head.  "What  did  you  keep  us 
waiting  so  long  for?" 

Zulma  looked  unflinchingly  into  his  ferocious  eyes.  "You 
was  in  a  mighty  big  hurry,  sur;  I  was  opening  as  fas'  as  I 
could.  " 

"That's  a  d — lie.  You  were  hiding  the  folks  or  some- 
thing— you  little  traitor!  Say,  where's  the  boss  of  this  she- 
bang?" 

"He's  gone  off  a  little  piece,"  answered  Zulma  hesitating- 
ly.     "He'll  be  back  after  awhile." 


FAITHFUL    UNTIL    DEATH.  279 

She  hoper]  to  intimidate  the  ruffians  by  the  sh'  insinuation 
that  her  master  had  gone  for  re- inforcements,  but  she  was  dis- 
appointed; the  man  broke  into  an  incredulous  hxugh. 

"The  coward!  He's  taken  to  the  swamps  and  won't  be 
back  here  before  broad  daylight,  you  bet.'' 

He  said  this  to  his  companions,  but  turning  to  Zulma, 
once  more,  asked:  "And  where's  the  women  folks?  Have 
they  put  out  too?'' 

"Yes,  sur,  dey've  gone  too,  '  answered  Zulma,  with  a 
sinking  heart. 

"B}^  jove!  then  we'll  just  take  possession  "  cried  the  des- 
perado, throwing  himself  in  one  of  the  hall  chairs.  '  'See  here 
girl,  we're  the  masters  here  and  you^ve  got  to  wait  on  us. 
Bring  us  all  the  whiskey  3'ou've  got  in  the   house,  first  thing. '' 

"My  marstar  don't  make  use  of  sich  stuff,"  answered 
Zulma,  with  rising  anger.  "He  drink  nuffin  but  wine,  an'  he 
ain't  got  none  lef." 

"Thunder  and  lightning!  he  hasn't?  Then  haul  out  the 
money;  he  has  lots  of  that,  I  know,  for  he's  been  squeezing  it 
out  of  you  niggers  for  the  last  fifty  years,  I  reckon.  We've 
heard  that  these  d —  Southerners  keep  gold  by  the  barrelful. 
Where  is  it?" 

"My  goodness!"  exclaimed  Zulma.  "You  take  money 
fur  dirt!  If  my  marstar  got  sich  lots  of  it,  I  niver  laid  eyes 
on  it." 

"Then,  we'll  hunt  it  up — nothing  easier.  Come  on  boj's!" 
cried  the  leader,  starting  frum  his  chair.  His  followers  needed 
no  second  invitation,  and  began  the  search  by  rushing  into  the 
parlor. 

"I'm  sure  it  is  not  here;"  remarked  one  of  them,  lifting 
the  candle,  and  taking  a  critical  survey  of  the  elegant  furni- 
ture in  the  reception  room.     Lucile's  was  the  next  apartment 


280  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD  SOUTH, 

desecrated  by  their  presence.  Here,  they  fell  to  work — pull- 
ing out  drawers  and  scattering  their  contents  over  the  floor. 
Then,"  they  broke  open  her  armoir.  When  Zulma  saw  them 
tossing  out  Lucile's  gowns  and  shawls  and  laces,  she  ran  to 
them  in  a  tremor  of  excitement  and  indignation. 

"Stop  dat,  now!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  choking  voice. 
"Dat's  my  little  mistis'  things,  an'  j'ou  aint  gwine  ter  pitch 
'em  out  as  if  dey  was  no  'count  rags.  You  shan't!"  And  she 
began  picking  up  the  garments  and  other  articles,  muttering 
her  displeasure,  and  wiping  away  the  tears  which  sprang  to  her 
eyes,  notwithstanding  the  effort  she  made  to  keep  them  back. 
While  thus  busily  occupied,  one  of  the  Yankees  gave  a  tremen- 
dous blow  to  the  door  opposite  Lucile's  room.  Zulma  screamed 
and  started  towards  it  with  a  bound. 

"Git  out!  You  aint  got  no  business  in  yere!" 
"D —  you,"  cried  the  Yankee.  "Open  the  door!" 
"Dey's  nobody  in  dere  but  a  sick  lady,  an'  I  ain't  gwine 
ter  let  you  in;"  answered  Zulma,  standing  with  her  back 
against  the  door  and  fixing  her  shining  e3'es,  with  a  look  of 
savage  determination,  on  the  brute.  "I  ain't  gwine  ter  move 
frum  yere,  if  you  kill  me!" 

"We'll  see  about  that — you  ugly  imp,  you,''  said  the  man 
seizing  her  by  the  shoulders  and  flinging  her  aside.  Zulma 
was  back  to  her  post  in  a  second.  Then  followed  a  desperate 
and  prolonged  scuffle  between  the  strong  and  agile  girl 
and  her  drunken  antagonist.  Zulma's  quick  ear  had  detected 
a  commotion  within  and  heard  some  one  tampering  with  the 
lock,  the  circumstance  increased  her  terror  and  anxiety  to 
keep  the  villanous  wretch  from  entering  the  apartment. 
"Please,  sur, "  she  said,  in  a  tearful  voice,  "my  poor  mistis 
is  very  bad  off;  if  you  keep  on  skeeria'  her,  you'll  kill  her; 
indeed,  you  will!" 


FAITHFUL    UNTIL    DEATH.  281 

"I  don't  care  a  d —  if  I  do,"  he  answered,  looking  around. 
Say  one  of  you  boys  come  here,  and  hold  this  nigger  'till  I 
burst  open  this  infernal  lock.'' 

As  he  drew  out  his  revolver,  Zulma  screamed  out:  "Git 
out  de  way,  mistis,  he's  gwine  ter  shoot!" 

The  warning  was  scarcely  out  of  her  mouth  when  a  loud 
report  accoropanied  by  a  heart-rending  shriek,  shivered  the  air. 

The  door  flew  open,  and  Zulina,  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke,  fell  back  in  the  arms  of  her  mistress. 

The  Yankee  stared  for  a  minute  at  the  spectacle — his  eyes 
riveted  on  his  victim  with  an  expression  of  fear  and  horror. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  do  it;"  he  said;  "the  fool  thing  threw 
herself  between  me  and  the  lock,  just  as  I  fired.  I'm  sure  I'm 
not  to  blame."  Then,  turning  to  his  companions,  he  said: 
'•Let's  hustle  out  of  here,  boys;  this  little  game  settles  our 
business.      Come  on.  ' 

Neither  Plaisance  nor  Mrs.  Hunt  noticed  the  remark,  or 
the  sudden  disappearance  of  the  men;  their  thoughts  were  ct)n- 
centrated  on  the  palpitating  form  which  lay  between  them. 

"0  heavens!"  cried  Mrs.  Hunt;  "they  have  killed  her 
outright!  Zulma,  dear  child,  speak  to  me;  tell  me  w^hat  f  can 
do  for  you." 

The  dying  girl  lifted  her  eyes  and  fixed  them  with  a  plead- 
ing, piteous  look  upon  her  mistress. 

"Help  me  up,  please,  mistis;"  she  said  in  a  faltering- 
voice.      "Don't  let  me  die." 

The  effort  she  made  brought  on  a  hemorrhage,  which 
flowed  in  a  crimson  tide  through  the  fingers  of  the  white  hand 
pressing  irapotently  ngainst  tlie  gaping  wound.  Zulma  coughed 
and  gasped  for  breath.  "0  Lord!  I'm  dyin'  sho'  'nough,  mis- 
tis; k^op  me  frum  it — till — till — I  see — MisB — Lucile," 


282  ZULMA,    A    STORY   OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Fix  your  thoughts  on  God,  dear  Zulma;'"  cried  Mi's.  Hunt, 
with  a  look  of  anguish.  "Ask  Him  to  accept  your  life  m  ex- 
piation of  your  sins,  and  to  receive  you  in  Heaven." 

"Youd  better — speak  to  Him — 3-o'self,  'bout  dat — mistis; 
I — can't — wid  all  dis  blood — spoutin'  out  'er  me!" 

Mrs.  Hunt  groaned  aloud,  and  bent  once  more  over  the 
sutl'erer's  face.  "Yes,  Zulma,  I  will  help  3^ou:  but  you  must 
pra}^  yourself,  and  repeat  after  me  the  prayers  I  shall  say  with 
you.  Do  you  understand  me?  Can  you  follow  me,  dear 
Zulma?" 

"Yes,  my  mistis,"  answered  Zulma,  with  a  sob.  I  knows 
— you'll — take  me— straight  to  Jesus. "  She  then  repeated  in 
broken  accents,  several  touching  aspirations  after  her  mistress; 
during  the  time,  she  kept  her  eyes  fixed  helplessly  to  the  lips 
which  tremblingly  formed  them.  Her  heart  heaved  painfully, 
and  several  large  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  as  she  said:  "I 
— want — to — see — Miss  Lucile — aint — she — comin'  ?" 

"Yes,  lie  quietly;  she  will  come  directly — your  master 
has  gone  for  her — but  dear  Zulma,  while  you're  waiting,  keep 
your  thoughts  on  God, and  on  our  Saviour  who  died  to  save  us, 
you  remember,  Zulma?" 

'•Yes — Miss  Lucile — dun  tole  me — all — bout  Jesus." 

She  uttered  the  last  words  with  painful  difficulty  drawing 
her  respiration  in  short,  spasmodic  gasps.  Tt  was  evident 
that  her  life  was  rapidly  ebbing  away  with  the  torrents  of 
blood  that  flowed  from  the  fearful  wound  in  her  side.  Her 
head  rested  against  Mrs.  Hunt's  bosom.  Plaisance,  who  help- 
ed to  support  her,  kneeled  on  the  floor  and  watched  with  di- 
latmg  eyes,  the  painful  convulsions  of  the  dying  girl. 

"Mistress,"  she  whispered  in  French,  can't  you  hold  her 
by  yourself **till  T  go  out  thei'^  and  ring   the  plantation   bell? 


FAITHFUL    UNTIL    DEATH.  283 

"We  are  here  bj'  ourselves  and  must  have  somebody  to  help  us, 
you  know." 

Mrs.  Hunt  shuddered,  and  answered  in  a  plaintive  voice: 
"Oh!  no,  no;  not  now,  Plaisance.  Do  not  disturb  her  in  her 
last  moments;  let  her  spirit  depart  in  peace.  Pray,  rather, 
that  God,  in  His  mercy,  may  accept  the  life  she  has  so  gener- 
ously given  away.  Though  Zulma's  respiration  was  hardly 
perceptible,  she  made  another  attempt  to  speak.  Mrs.  Hunt 
brought  ber  ear  in  close  contact  with  the  twitching  mouth,  in 
order  to  catch  the  sense  of  the  words,  it  vainly  strove  to  con- 
vey. Only  a  moan  fretted  the  stiffening  lips;  the  chill  of 
death  was  upon  her.  The  eyelids  quivered;  the  long  lashes 
fell  heavil}^  upon  the  ashen  cheeks.  The  spirit  that  had  never 
been  released  from  earthly  bondage,  now  accepted  from  its 
Maker  immortal  Life  and  Freedom. 

"You  may  go  and  ring  the  bell;"'  said  Mrs.  Hunt,  in  a 
calm,  unfaltering  voice;  "no  earthly  sound  will  ever  again  dis- 
turb her  slumber!'  And  then,  as  if  suddenly  and  forcibly  re- 
minded or  her  irreparable  loss,  and  the  desolate  void  left 
by  Zulma's  death,  she  drew  the  insensible  body  to  her  breast 
and  broke  into  convulsive  sobs.  "0  Zulma!"  she  cried,  gazing 
on  the  still,  unconscious  face.  "Good  and  faithful  friend! 
what  shall  we  do  without  you?  Your  presence  has  for  so  long 
cheered  our  home;  your  devotion  has  so  ofteji  sustained  us  in 
hours  of  trial;  your  poor  little  hands  were  always  so  ready  to 
smooth  OUT;  the  rough  places  in  our  path,  and  to  remove  from 
it  the  sharp  stones,  and  when  we  were  ill  or  suffering,  you 
knew  it  even  in  j'our  sleep — 0  Zulma — dear  dead,  lost, 
Zulma!  And  to  think  that  death  should  be  the  price  of  this 
life -long,  unheard-of  devotion!  The  thought  is  unbearable! 
Plaisance,  how  are  we  to  break  the  news  to  Lucile?  she  who  is 
already  afflicted  on  Herbert's  account.  It  will  kill  her;  her 
p'oor  sensitive  heart  will  nevBr  stand  the  shook. 


284  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

Ob,  don't  lay  her  down  like  a  dead  dog,  Plaisance,  get  a 
pillow  off  the  bed.  Now,  help  me  to  remove  these  clothes,  I  am 
weltering  in  blood.  The  sight  is  enough  to  make  one  crazy. 
Look  at  that  pool  near  the  door!  The  stain  can  never  be  wash- 
ed awa3^  It  will  remain  there  as  a  pledge  of  Zulma's  undying 
devotion  to  our  family.  ''Poor,  dear  young  martyr!  May 
God  grant  you  a  blissful  eternal  Life  for  the  one  you  have  so 
.  generously  sacrificed  for  me!" 

Zulma  was  laid  out  in  her  own  room  at  the  end  of  the 
back  gallery — one  which  had  been  allotted  to  her,  when  the 
family  first  moved  to  the  house,  Lucile  had  undertaken  to 
furnish  and  decorate  it.  The  neat  bed,  the  table,  the  wash- 
stand  with  its  bowl  and  pitcher;  the  looking-glass  and  chairs, 
were  all  gifts  from  the  different  members  of  the  family.  The 
walls  were  covered  with  crayon  sketches  of  Lucile's;  with  bits 
of  scenery  from  her  brush,  and  gaud}'  fashion  plates,  tasteful- 
ly framed  by  her  deft,  artistic  hands 

Athough  exhausted  from  the  effects  of  the  terrible  ordeal 
she  had  undergone  within  the  last  twelve  hours,  Mrs.  Hunt  super- 
intended all  the  preparations  for  Zulma's  burial.  No  expense 
was  spared,  and  nothing  withheld  that  was  needed  for  the  oc- 
casion. The  brightest  and  sweetest  of  flowers  had  been  strewn 
on  her  snow}^  garment  and  laid  against  her  face,  now  settled  in 
eternal  slumber. 

That  serene  expression  and  inscrutable  smile  so  often 
seen  hovering  about  dead  lips,  rendered  her  face  as  beautiful  as 
sculptured  ebony.  The  poor  hands,  once  so  eager  and  help- 
ful, now  clasped  to  her  peaceful  breast,  a  cluster  of  "Cloth  of 
Gold."  The  creamy  petals  of  the  roses,  and  the  subtile  sweet- 
ness of  their  odor,  seemed  like  her  own  soul,  purified,  and  es- 
caping from  it8  prison  of  clay. 


PAITHFUL    UNTIL    DEATH.  285 

The  next  morning  after  the  terrible  tragedy,  Dave  start- 
ed on  his  journey  to  meet  his  master,  in  order  to  apprise  him 
of  the  night's  occurrences.  He  had  not  ridden  many  miles, 
when  some  one  informed  him  that  the  Federals  had  ex- 
tended their  pickets  a  mile  above  Fordoche  and  none  were  per- 
mitted to  cross  the  lines. 

Thus  frustrated  in  his  design,  the  faithful  old  darkie 
turned  his  horse's  head,  and  slowly  retraced  his  steps  home- 
ward. When  he  reached  the  boundary  line  of  his  master's 
place,  he  dismounted,  sat  by  the  road-side,  and  waited  for  his 
return.  As  soon  as  Mr.  Hunt  drove  within  hearing  distance, 
old  Dave  arose  and  stepped  into  the  middle  of  the  road. 
Here  he  waved  his  hand  and  called:  "Hole  on  marster,  please 
sir!" 

There  was  something  in  his  actions  and  expression,  which 
struck  Lucile  and  her  father  with  disma^^ 

"What  is  ihe  matter,  Dave?"  asked  Mr.  Hunt,  reining  up 
his  horse  and  turning  deathly  pale. 

"Awful  news,  marster,  awful!"  answered  the  old  man, 
coughing  to  clear  his  throat. 

Lucile  was  seized  with  a  sinking  fear  which  froze  the 
blood  in  her  veins. 

"Is  Herbert  Davis  any  worse?''  asked  Mr.  Hunt;  his 
thoughts  naturally  reverting  to  the  youth  whom  he  had  left  in 
a  critical  condition  the  evening  before, 

"I  reckon  not,  marster,  I  lef  home  early  dis  morning 
an'  hadn't  heard.  But  we've  had  dreadful  times  up  home 
sence  you  lef.  Dem  Yankee  gaw -hawkers  cum  thar  las'  night 
and  kill  poor  Zulma!  " 

"What?"  And  Mr.  Hunt,  with  a  look  of  horror,  glanced 
at  Lucile. 


286  ZULMA,   A    STORY    OP    HIE    OLD  SOFTII, 

A  shriek,  almost  unearthly,  broke  from  lier  lips;  then  fol- 
lowed a  succession  of  cries,  so  piercing  and  heart-rending,  that 
her  father  feared  she  was  going  into  spasms.  He  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  and  tried  to  soothe  her  by  endearing  words  and 
by  reminding  her  of  Herbert,  who  was  now,  so  sadly  in  need  of 
her  love  and  sympathy.  But  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  check 
the  violence  of  her  feelings.  The  shock  of  this  unexpected 
misfortune,  counterbalanced  the  fears  and  griefs  which  had  so 
unmercifully  lacerated  her  soul  since  the  evening  before.  In 
the  painful  certainty  of  Zulma's  tragic  and  untimely  death, 
she  lost  sight  of  that  other  contingency  so  much  dreaded  and 
so  hopelessly  repelled.  When  the  first  outburst  of  grief  had  ex- 
hausted itself,  lAicile  suddenly  subsided  into  stony  silence. 
The  cruel  shock  she  had  received,  seemed  to  have  crushed  or 
annihilated  every  emotion.  Sbe  remained  in  this  passive  con- 
dition until,  leaning  on  her  father's  arm,  she  entered  her  home. 
Here,  her  feelings  once  more  asserted  themselves,  and  she 
started  towards  her  mother's  room,  calling  her  in  the  most  pit- 
eous tone.  Plaisance  who  happened  to  be  near,  caught  Lucile 
in  her  arms,  just  as  she  reached  the  fatal  spot  where  Zulma 
had  yielded  up  her  life  the  night  before. 

"Oh  dont  go  in  dere,  ^tite  maitresne! "  she  cried,  in-  a 
thrilling  voice.  ^'J>on  I) ieu!  never  go  in  dat  room  again,  as 
long  as  you  live.  Come  wid  me— you  mus' — me'll  take  you 
to  yo'  mamma!  ' 

It  is  needless  to  describe  the  scene  which  followed.  Mrs. 
Hunt,  who  had  heroically  borne  her  part  in  the  excitement  at- 
tending Zulma's  death,  completely  collasped  at  the  sight  of 
her  husband  and  daughter.  She  had  never  fully  realized  the 
dangers  she  had  been  exposed  to,  until  slie  felt  their  protect- 
ing arms  around  her,  and  listened  to  their  vain  regrets  for 
having  abandoned  hei'  during  a  time   so  fraught  with  danger. 


FAITHFUL    UNTIL    DEATH.  287 

Mr.  Himt  and  his  wife  tried  to  dissuade  Lucile  from  see- 
ing Zulma.  "If  you  take  our  advice,  darling,"  said  her  fath- 
er, "you  will  always  remember  her,  as  you  once  knew  her — 
full  of  life  and  gayety;  but  if  you  look  on  her  dead  face  now, 
the  impression  that  will  be  made  upon  3'our  mind  will  cling 
there  for  years.  Dearest  child,  be  guided  by  those  who, love 
you  and  desire  your  happiness.  We  can  appreciate  your  feel- 
ings; we  understand  how  hard  it  is  for  you  to  bear  it — but  'tis 
best  to  submit  to  our  wishes.  The  sight  of  her,  will  unnerve 
you  and  make  you  ill.  Spare  us  the  pain  and  anxiety  of  such 
a  misfortune,  dear  Lucile!  " 

"O  Papa!  "  answered  Lucile.  "If  T  were  to  go  to  her 
now  and  call  her,  she  would  answer  me,  I  am  sure.  She  al- 
ways did  Papa — so  promptly;  and  she  will  now  because  I 
know  she  is  not  dead — not  quite!  0  mamma;  let  go  my 
hands  let  me  go  to  Zulma!  I  cannot  allow  them  to  bury  her 
alive.  She  does  not  deserve  such  a  fate.  I  must  see  her — 
and  I  will!  " 

With  these  words,  Lucile,  with  strength  born  of  despera- 
tion, broke  from  her  parents'  restraining  arms,  and  rushed  out 
in  the  direction  of  Zulma's  room.  Happily,  her  mother  had 
ordered  Plaisance  to  keep  the  door  locked,  at  least,  until  after 
Lucile  had  recovered  from  her  first  outburst  of  grief.  On 
reaching  the  apartment,  Lucile  threw  herself  against  the  door 
crying:  "Zulma!  0,  Zulma!  It  is  I — Lucile,  your  little  mis- 
tress. Wake  up — I  have  come  to  you  to  nurse  you — to  be  good 
to  you,  dear  Zulma.  Oh,  why  don't  you  answer  me?  Can't 
you  hear  me,  Zulma?  " 

Here  she  ceased  calling,  and  waited  with  a  look  of  in- 
tense expectation  in  her  wan  face,  as  thou'gh  listening  for  some 
sign  within  which  would  revive  her  sinking,  despairing' hope. 
The  awful  silence   which   succeeded  her  passionate  pleading, 


288  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

convinced  her  how  nnavailuig  were  her  efforts  to  recall  to  life 
that  good  and  faithful  creature,  who  had  until  now,  so  wil- 
lingly responded  to  her  bidding.  She  clasped  her  hands  OA'er 
her  face,  and  leaned  disconsolately  against  the  unyielding 
door,  giving  vent  to  her  feelings  in  wild  heart-breaking  sobs. 
Mrs. .  Hunt,  who  had  followed  her  daughter  to  the  back 
gallery,  sank  into  one  of  the  settees  and  waited  till  the  over 
burdened  heart  had  found  relief.  While  sitting  here,  Eugene 
Lafitte  came  up,  and  spoke  to  her  in  an  undertone.  After  a 
brief  and  whispered  conversation  between  the  two,  Mrs  Hunt 
said:  "Lucile  here  is  your  cousin  waiting  to  speak  to   you." 

Eugene  went  to  Lucile,  put  his  arm  around  her  drooping 
form  and  tenderly  kissed  her.  This  was  the  first  time  ttiey 
had  met  since  his  return.  He  had  never  before  kissed  her  or 
treated  her  with  such  familiarity;  but  she,  in  her  deplorable 
state  of  mind  did  not  seem  cognizant  of  his  actions.  She  rais- 
ed her  streaming  eyes  to  his,  and  with  extraordinary  compos- 
ure asked;    "Have  you  come  to  tell  me  that  Herbert  is  dead?'" 

"No  darling;"  quickly  responded  her  mother;  "Herbert  is 
better  and  has  sent  your  cousin  for  you.  '  Lucile  disengaged 
herself  from  his  encircling  arms. 

"It   is    useless    to  try    lo    deceive   me,  I  know  Herbert  is" 
worse — perhaps  dying.       You  will  let  me  go  to  him.    Mamma? 
You  will  not  refuse  me  the  consolation  of  seeing  him  before  he 
dies.'' 

"Dear  Child!  we  are  not  deceiving  you,''  said  Mrs.  Hunt, 
"Herbert  is  really  better,  and  I  want  you  to  go  to  him  and  to 
stay  with  Rosanna  until — until — " 

"Oh;  do  not  say  it.  Mamma!"  cried  Lucile,  with  a  depre- 
cating gesture,  and  a  frightened  expression  in  her  eyes.  "But 
— it  will  make  no  difference — when  I  return  home  I  shall 
miss  her  the  more,  alter  you   have    taken  her  entirely  away.'" 


FAITHFUL    UNTIL    DEATH.  289 

Then,  followed  a  scene  of  pathetic  farewells.  It  was  with 
difficulty  that  Mrs.  Hunt  tore  her  daughter  away  from  the  door 
which  hid  from  her  sight  the  remains  of  one  who,  though 
widely  separated  from  her  by  social  laws,  had  contrived  by  her 
unexampled  fidelity  and  disinterestedness  to  weave  around  her 
heart  such  bonds  as  seldom  unite  friends  of  the  same  color  or 
social  standing. 

"Herbert,"  said  Kosanna,  entering  her  brother's  room  to 
prepare  him  for  the  much  desired  visit.  "Lucile  has  come. 
Remember,  you  promised  me  not  to  exert  yourself  by  attempt- 
ing to  hold  a  conversation  with  her." 

"0,  sister!"  answered  the  sufl'erer,  heaving  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief, "I  imagine  that  her  pres'^nce  alone,  will  cheer  me  up  and 
hasten  my  convalescence.  I  was  so  afraid  she  would  refuse  to 
come.      Lucile  has  particular  notions,  you  know." 

"Lucile  has  suffered  a  good  deal  since  yesterday,  both  on 
your  account  and  that  of  her  mother's,  who  was  left  alone  last 
night  while  her  father  had  gone  after  her.  You  will  find  her 
very  much  changed,  Herbert." 

"Poor,  dear  Lucile!"  exclaimed  Herbert,  in  a  compassion- 
ate voice.  "I  have  been  the  cause  of  so  much  unhappiness  to 
her! — /,  who  should  have  shielded  her  from  every  sorrow! 
Send  her  in,  sister;  I  am  impatient  to  see  her." 

AVhen  Lucile  entered  Herbert's  room,  she  walked  towards 
his  bed,  and  seizing  one  of  his  hands,  which  happened  to  lay 
outside  of  the  counterpane,  knelt  down  and  bowed  her  head 
over  it. 

"My  darling!''  cried  Herbert,  "Stand  up;  let  me  look 
once  more  into  those  dear  e3'es!  Come  to  me  Lucile,  I  can  no 
longer  go  to  you!" 

Lucile  arose  from  her  knees  and  stood  beside  Herbert's 
pillow,  gazing  intently  on  the  beloved  countenance,  now  pale 
and  pinched  with  suffering. 


290  ZTJLMA,    A    STORV    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH, 

"My  own  Lucile, "  Herbert  said;  pressing  her  liand  to  iiis 
lips.  "You  can  love  and  forgive  me  now,  I  am  such  a  pitiable 
object  in  your  eyes." 

"Oh!  do  not  say  that,  Herbert,"  answered  Lucile,  wiping 
the  tears  which  rained  down  her  cheeks.  "You  are  dearer  to 
me  now  than  ever  before,  I  have  nothng  to  forgive;  'tis  I  who 
have  come  to  ask  your  pardon  for  my  seeming  heartlessness, 
for  I  had  forgiven  you  everything  when  I  received  your  first 
letter.  I  can't  account  for  my  conduct  towards  you  dear  Herbert. 
I  know  1  treated  you  as  if  I  was  still  angry  with  you  when  I 
was  not.  It  was  my  false  pride  which  prompted  me  to  do  it, 
but  I  have  suffered  enough  since  yesterday  to  expiate  all  my 
unkindness  towards  you;  believe  me,  dear  Herbert." 

"Then  you  still  love  me,  Lucile?" 

"I  have  never  ceased  to  care  for  you;"  replied  Lucile  co\> 
cring  her  face  wath  her  hands  to  hide  her  blushes. 

"Oh!  yes — once  darling,  when  I  treated  3'ou  so  outrage- 
ously bad.  Your  love  did  certamly  turn  to  hatred  then;  and  I 
deserved  that  it  should." 

"I  knew  that  you  were  laboring  under  a  painful  misun- 
derstandmg,  Herbert,  and  I  was  sure  you  still  loved  me  even 
in  your  anger." 

'  'That  is  true,  Lucile,  1  don't  think  I  could  have  loA^ed 
you  more  than  I  did  at  the  time  I  told  you  that  unpardonable 
falsehood.  But — nothing    will    ever  part  us  again,  dearest; 

nothing  but  death!"  Here  the  tears  dimmed  his  eyes,  and  a 
painful  expression  overshadowed  his  face.  "And  it  is  possi- 
ble, that  it  will,  very  soon;  a  person  in  my  predicament;  is  not 
very  hopeful  of  his  recovery." 

A  spasm  of  fear  clutched  at  Lucile's  heart,  and  she  turned 
deadly  pale. 

Herbert  on  seeing  her  emotion,  immediately  rallied,  and 
said  in  a  more  cheerful  voice;  "Darling,  I  am  too  happy  to  die; 


FAITHFUL    UNTIL    DEATH.  291 

I  wish  God  would  spare  me  for  a  time,  at  least,  until  1  prove 
to  you  how  deeply" — Here- he  suddenly  ceased  speaking,  an 
unnatural  flush  overspread  his  cheeks,  and  he  put  his  hand  to 
his  side  with  a  suppressed  moan. 

''Herbert, "  cried  Lucile,  in  a  frightened,  agitated  voice, 
"you  are  exciting  3'ourself.  I  must  really  leave  you."' 

"Don't  go  please,  Lucile,  I  want  you  to  pray  for  my  re- 
covery, I'm  sure  Grod  will  grant  j'ou  anything  you  ask.  Kneel 
down  here,    close  to  me."' 

"I  will  pra}'  for  you,  with  all  my  heart,  Herbert;  but  you 
must  join  your  prayers  with  mine,  that  they  may  be  more  ef- 
ficacious.'" 

Herbert  said  he  would,  but  when  he  turned  his  eyes  in  the 
direction  of  the  bowed  head,  he  forgot  his  promise,  and  fol- 
lowed in  thought  the  angelic  spirit,  he  knew  had  detached  it- 
self from  earthl}'  surroundings  and  winged  its  flight  toward 
the  White  Throne.  When  Lucile  had  ended  her  prayer  she 
stood  for  some  moments  silently  contemplating  the  beloved 
and  altered  features  of  her  young  friend.  She  felt  her  throat 
tighten  and  her  heart  began  to  heave  with  conflicting  emotions. 

"Something  is  the  matter  with  you,  dear  heart,"  said 
Herbert,  anxiously  watching  the  dejected  expression  on  her 
sweet,  pale  face.      "Tell  me  what  grieves  you." 

"Well  I  declare!  Herbert,"'  answered  Lucile  with  a  pitiful 
attempt  at  a  smile.  "You  don't  expect  me  to  look  cheerful 
when  you  are  lying  here  a  helpless  sufferer,  do  you?" 

"Hardly,  if  you  love  me,  darling.  But  you  must  really 
cheer  up  now,  I  expect  to  get  over  this  with  God's  assistance 
and  your  fervent  prayers.  I  am  feeling  so  much  more  light- 
hearted  since  you  prayed  for  me." 

Herbert  once  more  took  possession  of  Lucile's  hands,  he 
pressed  them  tenderly  and  reverently  to  his  lips,    saying; 


292  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

<■  '1  believe  God  created  us  for  each  other,  Lucile.  I  can- 
not think  of  the  time  when  my  soul  lived  apart  from  yours,  or 
when  my  heart  throbbed  without  love  for  you.  Can  you  realize 
that  time  dearest!" 

"You  foolish  bo}'!"  said  Lucile  smiling;  "what  have  we 
to  do  with  the  past?"' 

"I  love  you  so  much  my  precious  darling,  that  I  can- 
not bear  to  think  of  the  time  when  }^our  heart  was  not  mine," 

"Herbert  I  am  going;'  said  Lucile  with  a  frown,  you 
have  broken  your  word  to  Rosanna," 

"I  told  her  you  would  cure  me,'"  he  answered,  with  a  hap- 
P3'  look  in  his  eyes. 

Though  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hunt  paid  daily  visits  to  Herbert, 
for  a  week  after  his  misfortune,  they  positively  refused  to 
allow  Lucile  to  return  home  with  them.  One  of  their  motives 
was,  because  her  presence  in  the  house  was  a  potent  element 
towards  Herbert's  recovery.  He  became  restless  and  uncon- 
trolable  whenever  he  suspected  Lucile's  absence.  A  mere 
glimpse  of  her  form  at  tlie  threshold  of  bis  door  was  sufficient  to 
restore  his  serenity  of  mind  and  brighten  up  his  countenance 
with  deep  pleasure.  Her  parents  also  wit  hed  to  see  her  become 
somewhat  reconciled  to  the  loss  of  Zulma  before  permitting 
her  to  see  the  scene  of  her  tragic  death.  Lucile.  on  her  part, 
made  superhuman  efforts  to  conceal  her  feelings  from  Herbert, 
but  she  soon  discovered  that  she  was  despondent  and  ill  at 
ease,  like  one  nursing  some  secret  sorrow,  and  forthwith  he 
began  racking  his  brains  to  ascertain  the  cause. 

One  evening,  when  Mrs.  Hunt  happened  to  be  sittimg 
alone  with  him,  he  turned  towards  her  with  a  quick,  anxious 
look.  "Dear  Mrs.  Hunt."  he  said,  "I  wish  to  ask  you  a  few 
(questions;  I  hope  you  will   answer  them  frankly,  I  do  not  say 


FAITHFUL    UNTIL    DEATH.  293 

tnithfulhj,  because  I  know  you  are  incapable  of  perverting 
truth."' 

"Thanks  for  your  oood  opinion,  Herbert,  '  said  Mrs.  Hunt, 
with  Slight  hesitancy  in  her  voice;  "I  will  answer  any  rea- 
sonable question  you  ask  me;  but  I  warn  you,  I  will  not  com- 
promise any  one,  nor  will  I  tell  the  truth  if  it  should  harm 
you." 

"It  is  evident  that  you  suspect  the  nature  of  my  queries," 
remarked  Herbert,  turning  his  face  towards  the  wall  with  an 
air  of  forlorn  resignation. 

'  I  give  you  my  woi'd,  Herbert,  that  no  special  suspicions 
have  crossed  my  mind." 

"You  may,  after  all,  relieve  my  mine  ot  a  very  painful  sus- 
spense;"  he  answered,  turning  abruptlv  towards  his  friend. 
"Tell  me,  am  I  ever  to  rise  from  this  bed,  Mrs.  Hunt?  I  am 
sure  3'ou  know,  and  will  tell  me  the  truth.  My  own  familj^ 
will,  naturally,  conceal  it  from  me." 

"The  doctors  have  pi-onounced  you  entirely  out  of  dan- 
ger, dear  Herbert;"  answered  Mrs.  Hunt,  with  joyful 
alacrity. 

"Then  a  greater  misfortune  than  death  confronts  me!"  ex- 
claimed Herbert,  clasping  his  hands  across  his  breast.  "Lu- 
cile  has  ceased  to  love  me — she  regrets  that  she  ever  plighted 
metier  troth." 

Mrs.  Hunt  stared  at  the  youth  with  unconcealed  amaze- 
ment. "Are  you  losing  your  mind,  Herbert?  What  has  put 
such  a  notion  into  your  head?' 

"Love  is  not  blind."  he  answered  rather  impatiently.  "I 
see  but  too  plainly,  that  Lucile  has  changed  towards  me. 
She  is  reticent — avoids  me  even  though  she  knows  that  her 
presence  is  more  beneficial  to  me  than  all  the  physic  in  the 
world.      I  know  this  Mrs^    Hunt,  because  she  cannot  hide  her 


294  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

feelings    from     anyone,     her   nature     is    as     transparent     as 
glass." 

"How  you  misjudge  the  poor  child!"  cried  Mrs.  Hunt,  in  a 
faltering  voice.  "She  has  had  much  to  contend  against  all 
the  week.  Besides  her  anxiety  for  3'ou,  she  has  been  laboring 
under  a  sad  bereavement — the  loss  of  a  faithful  and  devoted 
friend." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Hunt,  dont  tell  me  that!"  cried  Herbert,  with 
a  terrified  expression  in  his  eyes.  He  fell  back  upon  his  pil- 
low, and  lay  silent  and  motionless  as  if  stunned  by  the  unex- 
pected announcement.  The  sound  of  suppressed  weeping 
aroused  him  from  his  momentary  surprise.  He  once  more 
raised  himself  from  his  pillow  and  looked  anxiously  down  upon 
the  bowed  head  at  his  bedside. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Hunt,"  he  asked,  "tell  me  for  whom  you  and 
Lueile  are  grieving." 

Emotion  prevented  Mrs.  Hunt  from  answering. 

"In  mercy,  relieve  me  from  this  painful  suspense,"  pur- 
sued Herbert,  in  great  agitation  of  spirit.  I  can  endure  it  no 
longer.      "What  dear  friend  have  you  lost.      Tell  me!" 

"Our  goodand  faithful  Zulma,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Hunt. 

"Zulma!  Zulma!"  gapped  Herbert,  "how  can  it  be?  I 
heard  her  merrily  singing,  when  I  passed  your  house  on  my 
way  to  Fordoche,  only  a  few  days  ago." 

"Her  death  was  very  sudden,  Herbert,"  explained  Mrs. 
Hunt,  drying  her  tears;  "but  you  must  not  expect  me  to  go 
into  the  particulars  of  it  to-day.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  tell 
this  in  order  to  undeceive  you  in  regard  to  Lucile's  feelings 
towards  you." 

"I  am  one  of  the  most  unfortunate  beings  in  Gods 
world!"  cried  Herbert,  clasping  his  hands  to  his  face;  "The 
most  ungrateful,  suspicious;  and  1  am  utterly  unworthy  of 
Luoile's  priceless  love!" 


OVERFLOW    AND    DISPERSION.  295 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

OVERFLOW  AND    DISPERSION. 

I  SHALL  pass  in  silence  over  a  space  of  eight  months  and 
*  bring  my  readers  on  to  an  epoch  when  the  resources  of  the 
Confederacy  were  at  length  exhausted,  and  it  stood,  bleeding, 
tottering;  its  quivering  heart  laid  bare  to  the  final  blow  that 
was  to  end  its  agon}'.  Unavailing  now,  was  the  valor  and 
brilliant  deeds  of  the  heroes,  who  had  sealed  their  principles 
with  their  life's  blood!  Unavailing,  the  sublime  faith  and  no- 
ble perseverance  of  the  patriots,  who  still  wrestled  for  Freedom 
on  Texan  soil !  The  confident  hosts,  who  had  so  proudly  be- 
gun their  career  at  Bethel,  were  now  drifting  to  their  doom 
towards  Appomattox,  the  Waterloo  of  Southern  Independence! 
In  Pointe  Coupee,  a  threatened  calamity  tended  to  aggra- 
vate the  deplorable  condition  of  things;  a  calamity  which  would 
be  the  climax  of  all  the  misfortunes  brought  on  by  the  war,  viz: 
a  destructive  overflow.  Since  the  emancipation  of  the  slaves, 
the  planters  had  made  no  attempt  to  keep  up  the  levees,  and 
the  Federal  troops  bivouaced  behind  Morganza,  did  not  seem 
to  realize  the  danger  that  menanced  them  from  that  quarter. 
The  rise  in  the  waters  of  the  Mississippi  was  unprecedently 
early  in  1865,  and  the  people  living  in  the  interior  of  the 
country  subject  to  overflows,  were  for  many  weeks,  harassed 
by  the  dreatiful  feat  of  being  orvertaken  by  the  ravaging  flood. 


29rt  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

The  stoutest  hearts  quaked  at  the  contemplation  of  the  ruin 
and  desolation  that  would  necessarily  follow  such  an  occurrence. 
As  spring  advanced,  the  water  from  tributary  streams 
continued  to  raise  the  already  booming  river  and  to  increase 
the  pressure  against  the  weak  and  defective  levees.  Morganza, 
the  largest  and  most  important  of  these,  was  the  first  to  suc- 
cumb to  the  overwhelming  weight  of  waters.  Simultaneous- 
ly with  the  break,  messengers  were  dispatched  all  over  the 
country,  carrying  the  distressful  tidings  to  those  who  had  so 
long  apprehended  the  catastrophe.  There  was  no  time  for  re- 
pining; the  people  were  up  and  in  arms,  as  it  were,  against 
the  advancing  foe.  Their  first  care  was  to  save  their  live- 
stock, the  only  property  they  could  now  lay  claim  to.  Their 
lands  could  no  longer  be  of  any  practicable  value  to  them;  the 
impoverished  and  unsettled  state  of  the  countr}',  bereft  them 
of  all  hopes  of  rebudding  the  levees,  and  they  made  up  their 
minds  to  abandon  their  plantations  to  the  annual  rampage  of 
the  Mississippi  river. 

The  news  of  the  crevasse  reached  Mr.  Hunt's  neighbor- 
hood at  a  late  hour  of  the  night.  By  dawn  the  next  day,  the 
hands  on  the  place  were  riding  in  hot  haste  over  fields  and  wood- 
land pastures  in  pui'suit  of  the  bewildered  cattle  which  they  were 
to  drive  out  to  False  River  before  the  bayous  became  impass- 
able. The  poor  dumb  things  vvent  panting  and  stampeding, 
filhng  the  air  with  their  mournful  bellowings,  as  though  la- 
menting over  the  loss  of  the  gre^n  meadows  and  luxuriant 
cane-brakes,  soon  to  be  convertedia  to  a  waste  of  waters.  Mr. 
Hunt  found  ample  space  and  pasturage  on  his  False  River 
plantation  to  accommodate  not  only  his  own  stock,  but  that  of 
his  friend's,  Mr.  Davis.  Thirty-six  hours  after  the  break, 
the  waters  of  the  Mississippi  were  rushing  from  the  overflow- 
ing blanks  of  bayous  across  tho  load  and   flolds,  and  in  less 


OVERFLOAV    AND    DISPERSION.  297 

than  a  week,  the}-  Lad  spread  like  a  pall  over  the  land,  confin- 
ing the  families  to  the  narrow  limits  of  their  honses.  Mr. 
Hunt  was  well  prepared  for  the  emergency;  he  had  had  several 
skiffs  built  and  a  flat  boat  twenty  feet  in  length.  These  timely- 
precautions  on  his  part,  saved  his  improvident  neighbors  from 
distressing  predicaments.  Many  of  the  l^milies  were  caught 
in  a  S8a  of  waters,  without  means  of  navigation  and  were  en- 
tirely dependent  on  others  for  the  crafts  which  enabled  them 
to  escape  from  their  submerged  dwellings.  The  Hunt  resi- 
dence, as  I  have  before  stated,  was  built  on  an  elevation 
several  feet  above  the  surrounding  country;  consequently,  the 
water  did  not  reach  this  point  until  four  days  after  the  break- 
ing of  the  levee.  But,  it  came  eventually,  slowly  creeping  up 
like  some  insiduons  foe,  gliding  among  the  beds  of  blooming 
flowers,  percolating  among  the  roots  of  the  trees  and  shrubbery. 
Higher,  still  higher,  rose  the  invading  element:  until  it  swept 
unchecked,  across  the  lovel}^  grounds,  and  mingled  with  the 
turbulent  currents  beyond.  The  roaring  of  the  waters  and  the 
incessant  thumping  of  the  drift-wood  against  the  flooring  and 
pillars  of  the  house,  kept  the  inmates  restless  and  awake  for 
many  a  long  night.  The  air  was  filled  with  distressing  soands; 
such  as  the  squealing  of  hogs  on  the  floating  rafts,  the  bel- 
lowing of  cattle  caught  in  the  flood,  and  the  clatter  of  the 
poultry  confined  in  the  lofts  of  out  houses. 

Such  noises  added  desolation  to  the  dreariness  of  the  pre- 
vailing aspect,  and  contributed,  not  a  little,  to  dishearten  the 
overflowed  populacion. 

Highland,  the  home  that  bad  seemed  so  cheerless  and 
empty  since  poor  Zulma's  death,  was  now  filled  to  its  ut- 
most capacity  with  those  families  who  had  not  had  the  time  or 
opportunity  of  escaping  before  the  bridges  had  been  washed 
away. 


298  ZULMA,     A    STORV    OF    TIIK    ()1,1)    SOUTIf. 

The  Davis"  were  cordially  welcomed  by  their  hospitable 
hosts ;  the  prospective  alliances  between  the  two  families  had  ten- 
ded to  increase  their  intimacy,  and  strengthen  the  bonds  which 
already  united  them  in  close  friendship.  The  mind,  instinc- 
tively recoils  at  the  approach  of  adversity ;  but  it  has,  when 
once  overtaken  by  it,  the  happy  faculty  of  overmastering  and 
lifting  itself  above  misfortunes,  even  when  the  last  vestige  of 
hope  has  vanished.  TIius  the  people  quietly  submitted  to 
their  lot,  as  soon  as  they  had  r(;covere(]  from  the  shock  caused 
by  the  sudden  calamity,  and  had  accustomed  themselves  to  the 
wide-spread  desolation  around  them.  It  may  have  been,  that 
the  fathers  of  large  families  bewailed,  in  secret,  the  loss  of 
their  property,  and  their  final  banishment  from  their  homes 
and  plantations;  l)ut  they  seldom  alluded  to  their  misfortunes 
or  depressed  the  spirits  ol  the  younger  members  by  open  man- 
ifestations of  their  feelings.  Life,  during  the  time  of  the  high 
water,  was  not  as  wearisome  and  monotonous  as  may  be  sup- 
posed. The  young  folks,  especially,  were  seldom  at  loss  for 
divertisements,  and  turned  every  opportunity  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage. The  skiff  and  boat  rides  over  the  trackless  fields,  and 
visits  to  their  neighbors,  was  an  enjoyable  pastime.  The 
fishing  parties  on  the  gallery  steps,  were  equal  to  picnics,  and 
the  results  were  sumptuous  meals,  when  noted  dishes  were 
served  at  little  expense.  Bisque,  Court-houillon,  and  the  de- 
licious perch  and  carp,  were  daily  prepared  by  adepts  in  the 
culinary  art. 

Herbert,  Lucile  and  Kosanna,  now  inseparable  companions, 
would  'paddle  off  "  on  pleasant  evenings,  to  watch  the  varied 
effects  of  the  sunsets  on  the  watery  expanse.  Herbert,  who 
usually  assumed  control  of  the  rudder,  steered  the  skiff  hither 
and  thither,  over  the  rippling  waves,  his  eyes  oftener  fixed  on 
the  gwB"etj  dainty  face  of  the  girl  he  loved,  than  on  the  Sunlit 


OVERFLOAV    ANP    DISPERSIC.V.  290 

waters  over  which  he  was  expected  to  rhapsodize  when  Lucile's 
beauty,  alone,  appealed  to  his  artistic  sense.  There  were  mo- 
ments, when  Herbert  feared,  that  his  love  for  his  betrothed, 
was  idolatrous,  and  he  trembled  at  the  remembrance  of  the 
time,  he  believed  himself  punished  for  this  same  absorbmg 
devotion.  He  thought  to  make  amends  by  leading  a  life  more 
in  keeping  with  the  blessings  he  enjoj^ed.  True,  Herbert's 
piety  was  not  of  that  spontaneous  sort  which  renders  the  ser- 
vice of  God  easy  and  persuasive ;  but  there  was  a  natural  con- 
gruity  between  the  uprightness  of  his  soul,  and  the  sentiments 
which  gratitude  and  sense  of  his  dependency  on  the  Diety, 
awakened  in  his  bosom.  He  had  as  yet,  never  lost  sight  of 
the  good  resolutions  he  had  taken  during  that  spell  of  illness 
which  came  so  near  terminating  his  youthful  career. 

It  w^as  now  two  weeks  since  the  breaking  of  Morganza. 
Mr.  Hunt's  intention  was  to  move  his  family  to  False  River,  as 
soon  as  the  velocity  of  the  current  had  sufficiently  abated 
to  render  navigation  safe  and  easy.  This  was  the  decision  of 
all  the  planters  in  his  section  of  the  country.  They  were 
compelled  to  abandon  their  places;  they  had  no  other  alterna- 
tive, as  there  was  no  longer  any  security  from  overflows. 
Mr.  Dawsej'  had  already  moved  to  one  of  the  parishes  on  the 
east  side  of  the  Mississippi ;  and  Mr.  Davis  was  making  prep- 
arations to  return  to  his  native  hills.  Such  changes  necessi- 
tated the  separation  of  the  young  lovers,  who  seemed  to  have 
become  more  fondly  attached  to  each  other,  since  the  last 
fortnight  of  close  and  blissful  companionship.  Lucile  was  not 
of  a  character  to  make  an  exhibition  of  her  feelings.  She  suf- 
ered,  but  none  detected  her  grief,  except  those  who  intuitively 
felt  it  and  responded,  to  it.  Herbert  and  her  mother  watched 
and  recognized  the  signs  of  her  struggle.  There  was  a  sug- 
gestiou  of  repressed  tears  in  her  dark  Violet  eyes,  and  When 


3(10  ZUL.MA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    (»LI)   SOITIT, 

ever  she  smiled,  her  pretty  lips  turned  in  woeful  little  curves 
at  the  corners.  Thesfe  affecting  marks  of  Lucile's  sorrow  and 
and  love  for  him,  filled  Herbert  with  conflicting  emotions, 
rendering  him,  by  turns,  the  happiest  and  the  most  misera- 
ble of  mortals.  He  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  spending 
long  sleepless  hours  at  night,  pondering  on  his  bard  destiny. 
The  war  was  fast  coming  to  an  end,  and  with  its  close  came 
the  final  pecuniary  perplexities  of  the  Southern  planters. 
What  prospects  had  he  now  of  acquiring  a  profession.  His 
father  had  promised  to  send  him  back  to  the  University  of 
Mississippi,  in  order  to  pass  through  a  course  of  civil  engineer- 
ing, but  the  exercises  of  that  institution  had  been  suspended, 
and  there  was  little  hope  of  him  resuming  his  studies  else- 
where. The  money  his  father  had  paid  for  his  Grosse  Tete 
land,  and  spent  in  the  purchase  of  the  slaves,  was  irretrievably 
lost;  moreover,  he  was  under  the  necessity  of  procuring 
another  home  for  his  family.  Mindful  of  these  facts,  Herbert 
had  in  the  early  part  of  the  year  devised  a  plan  which  would 
enable  him  to  procure  the  funds  necessary  to  pa}'  for  the  com- 
pletion of  his  education.  Half  of  his  father's  place  had  been 
abandoned  for  the  want  of  laborers.  With  the  assistance  of  a 
couple  of  hired  hands,  Herbert  undertook  to  plant  a  cotton 
crop  on  this  land.  The  hope  of  selling  the  staple  at  the  pre- 
vailmg  prices,  stimulated  his  courage  and  filled  his  bosom  with 
enthusiasm.  His  energy  was  in  proportion  to  the  prospect 
which  opened  before  him.  His  ambition  was,  not  only  to  real- 
ize a  sum  sufficient  to  defray  his  school  expenses,  but  also,  a 
yurpJus  which  would  enable  him  to  make  a  start  in  life,  it 
was  not  customo.ry  at  that  time,  for  the  sons  of  planters  to 
lower  themselves  by  manual  labor.  Herbert  had  to  contend 
against  popular  opinion,  as  well  as  the  hardships  incident  to 
llis  daring  and  laudjjiblc  ent'orpriso.     Happily,  he  was  o"f  that 


OVERFLOW    AND    DISPERSION.  IjOl 

high-toned,  independent  character  which  feared  no  reproach 
save  that  ot  his  conscience,  and  he  persevered  in  his  work  until 
his  designs,  as  we  have  seen,  were  frustrated  by  the  untimel}'' 
overflow.  But  he  quickly  rallied  after  his  disappointment,  and 
began  building  up  new  plaus  by  which  he  might  aspire  to  a 
still  higher  calling  than  the  one  his  father  had  previously 
chosen  for  him.  As  yet,  his  prospects  were  still  edged  in  by 
unsurmountable  obstacles,  and  there  was  nothing  for  him  to 
do  but  make  the  best  of  the  time  which  intervened  between 
his  recent  enjoyment  and  the  painful  separation  from  his  be- 
loved Lucile. 

One  day,  Herbert  and  Lucile  had  undertaken  to  pack  in 
large  wooden  boxes,  a  lot  of  books  which  were  to  be  sent  out 
with  part  of  the  furniture  to  the  old  plantation.  The  family 
were  to  follow  on  the  next  trip  of  the  flat-boat.  The  task  was 
a  sad  one  to  the  young  people.  They  were  breaking,  as  it 
were,  one  by  one,  the  tendrils  which  bound  their  hearts  to 
these  objects  of  their  mutual  aflfections.  Many  of  the  familiar 
volumes  passing  through  their  hands,  were  associated  either 
with  their  happy  childhood,  or  with  that  sweeter  time  when 
each  felt  drawn  towards  the  other  b}'  tlie  .subtle,  uncontrolable 
attraction  which  the  heart  has  no  power  to  resist.  Here  were 
Scott's  works,  the  first  novels  they  were  allowed  to  read. 
Macauley,  Goldsmith,  D'.ckin's  Hawthorne;  the  sight  of  each 
awoke  some  tender,  responsive  chord  of  memory's  lyre.  Some 
times,  they  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  books,  searching  for 
favorite  passages,  or  for  such  as  once  appeared  too  profound 
for  their  comprehension,  in  order  to  test  the  actual  develop- 
ment of  their  minds.  Herbert  opened  at  random,  Popes 
Essay  on  "Man.'  "Lucile,"  he  asked,  "do  you  remember 
what  a  time  we  had  trying  to  analyze  this  passage:  'Know  thy- 
self, presume  not  on  God  to  scan?  '" 


302  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"ludeed,  I  clo, "'  answered  Lncile,  raising  to  liiiu  her 
thoughtful  eyes;  '-and  I  remembered  how  you  dared  to  assist 
me  out  of  m}-  embarrassment.  You  were  alwaj'S  kind  and  con- 
siderate towards  me,  Herbert;  always  my  champion  ever  since 
I  was  a  child. "' 

Herbert's  face  flushed  most  painfully. 

"I  wish~I  had  always  been  good  to  you,  Lucile;"  lie  said, 
turning  aside  to  hide  his  confusion.  "The  thought  of  my  out- 
rageous foil}'  and  injustice  towards  you,  will  forever  burn  in 
my  memory  and  keep  my  heart  in  a  state  of  wholesome  contri- 
tion." 

"0,  Herbert!'  cried  Lucile,  with  a  deprecating  gesture; 
"hush!  but  I  am  thinking,"  continued  she,  glancing  up  at 
Herbert,  who  now  earnestly  met  her  gaze  from  his  perch  on  the 
step  ladder;  "that  our  little  misunderstanding  has,  after  all, 
been  productive  of  much  happiness  to  two  people  whom  we 
both  dearly  love.  Has  it  not  been  the  direct  cause  of  bringing 
together  Rosanna  and  Cousin  Eugene?  He  never  would  have 
returned  to  the  parish,  had  you  not  insisted  on  his  coming 
home  with  yon. " 

'  'And  I  never  would  have  invited  him  had  we  not  had  a 
failing  out,"  exclaimed  Herbert,  with  a  glad  light  in  his  fine 
eyes.  "We  have  not  sutfered  in  vain,  dearest.  Our  own  love 
for  each  other  has  been  strengthened  by  the  ordeal,  and  the 
life-long  happiness  of  our  friend  and  relative  has  occurred 
from  an  incident,  we  once  thought  had  forever  ruined  our  own 
prospects.  Your  reflection  has  removed  a  great  weight  from 
my  mind,  and  has  made  me  so  happy,  I've  a  notion  to  step 
down  and  kneel  at  your  feet  in  humble  acknowledgement  of 
the  benefit  you  have  conferred  upon  me." 

"Don't  make  yourself  ridiculous,  Herbert;"  Lucile  pro- 
tested, with  a  pathetic  attempt  at  gayety.  'Hand  me  the 
books,  quick!  this  is  no  time  for  jesting." 


OVERFLOW    AND    DISPERSION.  303 

"Pray,  do  not  huny  me!"  pleaded  Herbert,  quietly  lean- 
ing against  the  shelves  of  the  book-case.  "I'm  trying  to  pro- 
long this  job  'till  evening.  Yon  seem  to  forget  what  will  be 
the  result  of  the  final  packmg  up  of  these  household  treasures. 
Have  you  thought  of  the  meaning  of  it  all,  my  darling?' 

"Oh,  yes  I  have!'"  wailed  Lucile  in  broken  accents.  "It 
means  everything  sad  and  discourging,  Herbert;  the  severing 
of  ties  between  old  friends,  the  breaking  up  of  our  dear,  beau- 
tiful home,  and  an  eternal  farewell  to  Grosse  Tete.  We  must 
give  up  the  old  life  and  all  its  pleasant  associations;  the 
flowers,  our  little  ^Vale  of  Tempe,'  and  the  dear  old  cabin  home 
where  we  spe.it  so  many  happy  days  together. "  Lucile  here 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands  like  one  overcome  by  the  pres- 
sure of  emotion.  In  a  thrice,  Herbert  was  by  her  side,  strug- 
gling to  unclasp  the  little  hands  which  eclipsed  the  light  of 
her  beautiful  eyes.  "Lucile,  darling!"  he  cried,  "look  up! 
things  are  not  as  bad  as  you  imagine.  The  changes  which 
overtake  us  here  cannot  long  or  materially  efl'ect  our  prospects 
in  life.  Very  soon,  we  shall  create  a  little  world  of  our  own; 
and  if  you  care  for  me  as  much  as  I  do  for  you,  my  own 
Lucile,  we  shall  find  happiness  in  whatever  situation  we  are 
thrown.  What  is  there  to  fear?  Am  I  not  strong  and 
hopeful?  I  only  wish  I  had  greater  obstacles  to  surmount, 
that  I  might  prove  to  5^ou  how  dearly  I  love  30U  and  how 
much  I  would  dare  for  your  sake.'"  The  captured  hands  had 
ceased  to  flutter  and  lay  confidingly  in  his. 

"Herbert,"'  asked  Lucile.  turning  to  him  her  flower-like 
face,   "have  I  ever  mistrusted  you?" 

"0,  Lucile!  I  hope  not.      Why  do  you  ask?"' 

"Because  you  persist  in  saying  things  which  imply  your 
lack  of  confidence  in  regard  to   my  sentiments   towards  you." 


H04  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

"Then,  I  shall  correct  myself  of  the  foolish  habit;"  re- 
joined Herbert,  a  glad  expression  flitting  across  his  handsome 
countenance.  "My  actions  alone  shall  hereafter  prove  my 
deathless  love  for  you ;  and  some  of  these  days,  1  mean  to 
make  you  feel  proud  of  the  name  I  am  going  to  give  you;  it 
will  not  be  difficult  to  win  fame,  if  you  be  my  Cynosure, 
dearest  Lucile." 


CONCLUSION.  305 


CONCLUSION. 

The  rest  of  this  story  is  soon  told. 

Immediately  after  the  close  of  the  war,  a  friend  of  Mr 
Davis'  secured  for  Herbert  a  fine  situation  in  New  Orleans. 
Here,  he  was  thrown  in  daily  intercourse  with  a  set  of  ener- 
getic and  intelligent  youths,  who,  like  himself,  were  struggling 
to  make  their  mark  in  the  world.  Closing  his  heart  against 
the  allurements  of  the  city  life,  he  devoted  every  hour  of  his 
leisure  time  to  storing  his  mind  with  useful  knowledge  and  in 
accumulating  the  funds  which  would  materially  aid  him  in  the 
acquirement  of  an  honorable  profession.  With  very  little  as- 
sistance, he  pursued  a  course  in  higher  mathematics,  and 
methodicallj'  read  such  standard  works  as  he  knew  would 
tend  to  invigorate  his  mind  and  prepare  him  to  take  a  literary 
course  in. some  Southern  university. 

In  the  Summer  of  1866,  Mr.  Hunt  received  a  letter  from 
his  mother  announcing  the  death  of  his  aged  father,  and  giv- 
ing sad  details  of  the  havoc  wrought  during  the  war  in  his 
native  vallej'  and  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  his  old 
home.  His  mother's  bereavement,  her  losses  and  tender  solic- 
itude on  his  own  account,  strongl}'^  appealed  to  his  compassion 
and  filled  his  heart  with  a  longing  to  look  on  her  face  once 
more,  and  to  revisit  the  familiar  scenes  of  his  happy  boyhood. 
He  never  expected  to  return  to  Grosse  Tete.  The  delapidated 
condition  of  the  old  homestead  on  False  River,  its  dreary  as- 
pect and  melancholy  memories,  rendered  it  an  undesirable 
place  of  residence.      He,  therefore,  made  up   his  mind  to  leave 


306  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH. 

his  propert)'  in  the  hands  of  an  agent  and  to  take  his  family  to 
Virginia  to  live.  JSo  people  in  the  world  are  as  fondly  at- 
tached to  their  homes  as  the  Creoles  are;  Mr.  Hunt  was  aware 
that  his  wife  was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  The  fear  of 
broaching  the  subject  to  her,  cost  him  many  anxious  hours. 
He  managed,  however,  to  bring  it  about  in  a  manner  the  least 
shocking  to  her  sensitive  heart.  Though  the  tears  rushed  to 
her  sorrowful  eyes,  and  her  bosom  heaved  with  convulsive 
emotions,  she  uttered  no  word  of  protest,  and  submitted  to  her 
husband's  wishes  with  that  sweetness  of  disposition  which 
showed  her  full  confidence  in  his  superior  judgment,  and  her 
appreciation  of  the  motives  which  prompted  him  to  return  to 
his  native  state. 

In  the  Spring  of  the  following  year  jMr.  Hunt  completed 
his  arrangements  to  leave  the  parish,  and  to  bid  adieu  to  the 
scenes  which  had  been  so  pleasantly  associated  with  his  early 
enterprises  and  happy  married  life. 

The  family's  last  visit  was  to  the  ancient  cemetery  at 
Saint  Francis'  Church,  where  the  dear  unforgotton  dead  slept 
beneath  the  murmuring  pines.  Lucile  and  her  mother  brought 
the  loveliest  fioweis  from  the  old  garden,  and  tearfully 
strewed  them  upon  the  Lafitte  tomb.  Lucile  then  sought  a 
grave  at  some  distance  off  in  the  rear  of  the  church  yard,  and 
laid  a  chaplet  of  pansies  upon  a  marble  slab  bearing  this  sim- 
ple inscription: 

SAORED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

"  ZULMA.  '• 

1864. 

She  gazed  long  and  sorrowfully  on  the  familiar  name,  en- 
wreathed   in   gold  and   purple   flowers.      She  seemed  to   look 


CONCLUSION.  307 

down,  into  a  vista  of  years,  when  Life  was  but  a  J03'ful 
ramble  among  trailing  vines  and  lily-fringed  bayous.  She  al- 
most fancied  she  heard  the  far  off  monotonous  songs  of  the 
field-hands — and  then  Zulma's  clear,  melodious  voice  drifting 
towards  her  in  farewell  echoes.  Her  eyes  had  looked  their  last 
on  the  vanished  scenes  of  her  childhood ;  a  sigh,  deep  as  a  sob, 
broke  from  her  sweet  tremulous  mouth. 

The  touch  of  her  father's  atfectionate  arm  about  her  waist, 
ended  her  sad  reverie. 

"Come  darling,"  he  said,  "we  must  reach  the  landing  in 
time  for  the  'Lee;'  she  will  not  wait  for  us;  he  added  with  a 
meaning  smile,   "nor  will  Herbert  brook  a  disappointment." 

One  of  Nannie  Dawsey's  epistles  to  a  Grosse  Tete  friend, 
will  give  further  tidings  of  the  characters  familiar  to  our 
reader. 

Magnolia  Retreat,  June  28,  1868. 
My  Dear  Laura: 

Much  obliged  for  the  kind  invitation  to  your  wedding;  if 
I  had  half  a  chance,  I'd  run  over — but  you  see  I'm  yoked  to  a 
widower  with  four  children,  and  have  my  hands  full.  I  never 
would  have  married  him  if  he  hadn't  fought  during  the 
entire  war  and  lost  an  arm  in  the  good  cause.  But  his  mis- 
fortune doesn't,  in  the  least  interfere  with  my  peace  of  mind. 
I'm  as  happy  as  a  lark,  and  am  trying  to  do  m3'  duty  towards 
his  motherless  boys.  Well,  I  must  say  that  the  matrimonial 
fever  is  raging  among  us  young  folks.  Onl}^  last  week  I  got 
a  Winchester  paper  giving  an  account  of  the  mari'iage  of 
Lucile  and  Herbert.  It  must  have  been  a  dandy  affair.  The 
happy  couple  are  spending  their  honeymoon  "visiting  historic 
battle  fields;'"  I  say — following  up  the  war  trails,  I  should 
not  wonder  if  Lucile  puts  out  her  beautiful  eyes  weeping  over 
fallen  braves. 


308  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OP    THE    OI.T)    SOUTH. 

Besides  the  Winchester  paper,  I  received  their  wedding 
card  and  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Hunt.  She  writes  that  Herbert 
has  adopted  the  law  as  a  profession.  After  he  left  New 
Orleans,  he  took  a  course  in  the  law  department  of  some  uni- 
versity; (forget  wnich,)  any  wa}',  he  learned  enough  to  start  on 
his  own  hook.  He  is  of  a  serious  turn  of  mind,  and  chuck  full 
of  ambition.  He  means  to  take  a  straight  cut  for  Washing- 
ton.     I  predict  he'll  get  there  some  ot  these  fine  mornings. 

Mrs.  Hunt  inquires  very  kindly  about  all  her  old  neigh- 
bors, and  sends  regards  to  all  whom  1  may  meet.  She  is  a 
sweet,  friendly  creature,  not  half  as  stuck  up  as  that  precious 
daughter  of  hers.  I  don't  think  Lucile  ever  forgave  me  for  a 
little  joke  1  once  played  on  her.  Mrs.  Hunt  writes,  that  they 
sold  tbeir  False  River  plantation  the  year  after  they  moved  to 
Virginia,  and  that  the  curious  old  ramshackle  house  on  it  has 
been  torn  down  to  make  room  for  less  imposing  buildings. 
What  a  pity!  'twas  such  a  jolly  old  place  for  ghosts! 

No;  I  haven't  heard  from  Rosanna  since  her  marriage. 
All  I  know  about  her  is,  that  Mr.  Lafitte  took  her  to  his  home 
at  Dangerfield.  Titus  county,  Texas.  My  gracious!  what  a 
scatteration  we've  luul  since  the  overflows.  A  bombshell  ex- 
ploding in  our  midst  couldn't  have  dispersed  us  as  neat.  I 
don't  suppose  we'll  ever  get  together  again,  nor  have  such  good 
times  as  we  had  on  dear,  rougli  and  tumble  old  Grosse  Tete. 

By  the  way,  I  was  real  sorry  to  learn  that  the  lovely  Hunt 
residence  at  Highland  had  been  burnt  to  the  ground.  I  think 
there  should  be  a  law  passed,  prol]ibiting  hunters  to  camp  in 
peoples  vacant  houses.  Pa  says  Mv.  limit's  agent  ought  to 
stand  responsible  for  the  damage  done.  He  has  his  own  pri- 
vate reasons  for  saying  so,  our  own  lovely  shanty  out  there, 
isn't  fire-proof  you  know. 


CONCLUSION.  o09 

Pa  is  still  bankering  after  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt;  and 
watching  the  papers  to  see  if  somebodj-  hasn"t  started  to  re- 
build the  levees.  His  normal  condition  is  that  of  a  crab  apple, 
and  he  swears  awfully  at  times.  He  says  he  would  rather  live 
six  months  on  a  raft  on  Grrosse  Tete  and  take  the  chances  of 
making  a  crop  after  the  water  than  to  stay  here  coaxing  cot- 
ton out  of  sand.  If  it  wasn't  for  Ma  and  me  he'd  be  back 
there  now,  but  m}'  goodness!  what  pleasure  will  there  be  floun- 
dering in  the  Avater  all  spring  like  ever  so  many  Irogs  and 
crocodiles.  As  long  as  Pa  had  the  darkies  to  growl  at,  there 
was  room  for  comfort,  but  for  want  of  better  he  pours  his  vials 
of  wrath  upon  his  nearest  and  dearest,  and  that's  poor  mother. 

Now  Laura,  I've  written  you  quite  a  respectable  letter, 
and  I  hope  3'oull  return  the  compliment. 

I  remain  as  ever  your  devoted  friend. 

Nannie. 

For  thirty  years  the  population  in  the  alluvial  parishes 
built  and  patched  their  levees,  but  with  practically  no  benefit, 
their  means  being  inac  equate  to  so  vast  and  undertaking.  In 
the  meantime  the  River  Commission  and  distinguished  engi- 
neers discussed  their  respective  theories  on  a  problem  which 
took  them  a  quarter  of  a  century  to  solve.  The  levee  system  has 
been  subsequently  adopted  as  our  only  safeguard  against 
floods,  and  the  the  work  of  construction  aided  b}-  the  govern- 
ment's liberal  appropriations,  has  been  prosecuted  to  comple- 
tion. These  superb  embankments  crowning  the  shores  from 
one  end  oi  the  State  to  the  other,  seem  to  bid  eternal  defiance 
to  the  Father  of  Waters.  The  people  in  the  valley  have  every 
reason  to  hope  that  they  have  seen  the  last  of  those  terrible 
overflows  which  have  been  harnssiiig  and  impoverishing  them 
since  the  War.  That  particular  section  of  the  country  de- 
scribed in  the  foregoiug    chaptei's,  had  until  recent  ytears  been 


310  ZULMA,    A    STORY    OF    THE    OLD    SOUTH, 

abandoned  to  almost  annual  inuniatlons.  The  once  flourish- 
ing plantation  known  as  "Highland,"  has  been  3^ear  after  year 
revolving  into  its  primitive  state.  The  silent  phenomena  of 
Nature  are  steadily  rebuilding  a  forest  as  wild  and  dense,  as 
that  leveled  by  the  axes  of  slaves  some  forty  3'ears  ago. 
Thickets  and  briars  riot  over  the  grounds  where  fairest  of  flow- 
ers, once  perfumed  the  air.  Trees  which  stood  in  S3'mmetrical  ar- 
ray about  the  stately  home,  now  wearily  clasp  their  mossy  limbs 
above  its  ashes.  The  sediment  carried  by  the  water,  has  par- 
tially filled  some  of  the  important  bayous,  and  the  action  of 
the  currents  has  washed  away  and  depressed  the  surface  of 
that  point  of  land  which  once  suggested  the  name  of  the  place. 
The  buildings  have  all  been  demolished — not  a  rnin  remains 
whereon  a  Marius  may  sit  and  ponder  on  the  vicissitudes  of 
Time  and  Fortune. 

Once  again  the  tide  of  immigration  turns  to  Giosse  Tete, 
and  settlements  are  crowding  up,  close  to  Highland,  the  finest 
tract  of  land  on  "the  Bayou,"  but  it  remains  intacf,(ionse- 
crated  by  its  owner  to  the  olden  memories  still  clustering 
around  it. 

THE  END. 


/ 


